Ship's Log: November 30

His eyes fell on Singh, waiting silently near the station at the base of the command deck.

Thompson knew that the Second was waiting for him to officially transfer command, but he had no intention of leaving the bridge until the situations with the sensor systems and the overdue arrival of the Chief Engineer were resolved. He turned away from Singh, choosing to ignore his presence for now.

He moved toward the Tactical station and glanced up at Hawkes. "Do you have a report on the logs yet?"

"No, First," Hawkes replied calmly. "They've only just started their work."

Thompson thought he should have felt some anger at the aged officer's faintly chiding remark, but he had phrased it in such a tone that it was difficult to foster up sufficient offense.

"Recommend that they work faster," the First snapped and turned away. Everything was happening far too slowly for his comfort.

"Yes, First," Hawkes acknowledged from behind him. Thompson heard the Tactical Officer's murmuring voice relaying the instructions.

Thompson tried to focus his thoughts, create some form of order amidst all of the swirling chaos. Too many things were happening, that should not be happening. He had expected some level of turmoil and uncertainty after the mutiny. He had not foreseen a string of serial murders, a mysterious fleet of ship that may or may not be out there hunting them, and certainly not a missing Captain who might or might not be still alive. He tried to take some solace in the thought that it was unlikely that anyone could have predicted any one of those events, much less them all occurring at the same time. And where was the Chief Engineer?

Something in his mind persisted in prodding him that, in some way, the Chief held the answers—or at least the key to finding them. A quick smile darted across his generous lips. Fear would be further occupied with that interrogation, less likely to intrude with her presence on the bridge. She also had three, perhaps four, autopsies to complete as well. It could be a long while before she even had time to make an appearance.

"Sir," a voice sounded, interrupting his reverie. It was the navigator, a young male ensign with tousled-looking brown hair. His voice wavered slightly at addressed the First.

"What is it, Ensign?" Thompson asked, his voice betraying more of his irritation than he would have liked.

The ensign swallowed before answering. "The sensor systems are back online, sir."

"And?"

The navigator stared at him for a moment in confusion. Realization of what Thompson was asking appeared to dawn. "Oh, uh," he said, finding his voice again. "They report nothing unusual during the diagnostics."

Thompson's eyes moved back to the main screen. "No new signs of those ships?"

The young ensign checked the status displays on his console. "All clear, sir."

Thompson nodded, feeling more of the tension ease. If there is anyone out there, he thought, they're keeping a good distance. One item down . . . at least for now. He turned to look toward Hawkes, who seemed intent while talking to someone over the intercom. It had only been a few minutes since he had last asked for an update on the log data recovery, but it was possible that something useful had been found already.

"Sir," Hawkes said, looking up from his station. His voice carried a restrained hint of urgency. "There's been an 'incident' involving the Chief."

Incident? Alarm filled Thompson. What had been idle suspicion now blossomed into utter conviction. A faint smile formed on his face. I knew it!

"And," Hawkes continued, his expression disconcerting the First even further, "they've found Lieutenant Banks."

#

A part of Elizabeth's mind noted that the air had grown cooler. The sounds around her were different now, softer and quieter. She thought she felt hands on her, but the sensation was remote and strange, like her skin had become a slick membrane. Fighting for consciousness, she tried to turn her head, but her muscles felt fluid, unable to abide by her commands. The noises became slightly more distinct. They were voices, she thought, but none of the sounds formed words that she could understand. She felt tired, drained in a way she had never felt before.

There was a quick, sharp pain-like sensation along her neck. Some of the fuzziness in her thoughts faded slightly. The colors and sounds around her took on sudden, sharp resolution. They were no more understandable than they had been before, just a greater vibrancy. An indistinct oval of mixed colors hovered near her face. Noises seemed to issue from it, but nothing she could comprehend. They seemed familiar in some way and she found that her buried, but swirling, sense of panic eased at the sounds.

Another set of noises came from near her head somewhere. She noted with distant curiosity that these brought her far less comfort. The instant of pain came again, this time near her chest. She almost gasped, feeling as though she had been touched by a live power conduit. The sensation faded, along with the lights and sounds around her. Darkness re-enveloped her. This time, though, she accepted it.

The next time she awoke, the images around her were still hazy, but her mind was much clearer. When she tried to move her arm, she was surprised when it actually obeyed her. She held the hand in front of her face, seeing the details of it. The surface of it was bright and shiny, as if the skin were newly regrown. It might have been, she realized, recalling the unbearable heat—and what it had signified—from her unexpected prison. She tried to repeat the process for her artificial hand, but without the same result. They must have removed it, she thought.

She looked upward again, now recognizing the she was in an acute treatment cylinder. That meant that she would live, but that her injuries were serious. The radiation exposure alone, she knew, might keep her in here for several days. She sighed, taking a quick look around the small chamber. The enclosed space did not bother her so much—it would be a tough thing to be an engineer on starship with claustrophobia—as did the sudden sense of loneliness. She considered calling out, to see who might be out there, but she stopped herself. The most likely person in the vicinity was someone she was not yet prepared to deal with.

How long have I been here? she wondered. She still felt vaguely weak, but it seemed more from the result of inactivity than from her ordeal. She stared out through the translucent surface of the chamber. Light makes all the difference, she thought, remembering the unbroken darkness of her entrapment. A noise crackled near her head.

"Lizzie?" the Chief's filtered voice sounded quietly. "You awake in there?"

Elizabeth started to speak, coughed, and tried again. "Yeah, I'm in here," she said, her voice sounding disconcertingly rough. She wondered her throat or vocal cords had been damaged as well. "When's room service?" she choked out, fighting back another cough.

The Chief's laugh seemed forced, but it might have been the result of the communications systems within the chamber. "I'll bring you something from the galley," he said, taking her request seriously.

"No," she rasped. "It's okay. I'm not really hungry." As she said it, she realized that it was true. The thought of physical food actually made her feel vaguely nauseous.

"Probably a better plan," the Chief said.

Silence returned. Elizabeth knew that he was still out there, probably just standing there awkwardly.

"Chief," she said quietly, hoping he could hear her.

"Yeah, Lizzie?"

"Get back to work," she told him, finding enough energy to give a small laugh. "I'm going to sleep some more."

"Are you sure?"

She smiled at his concern. "Yeah," she said. "I'm sure."

"Okay," came his reply after a moment. "I'll check in with you a little later."

"You'd better," she told him, realizing as she spoke that she meant it.

The faint crackling sound faded in silence. Elizabeth rested her head against the thin pillow and closed her eyes. It was only moments before she did, in fact, sleep.

Ship's Log: November 29

Rusty stood with the weapon trained on the guard, his arm surprisingly steady. He felt as though he longer controlled his own actions, that he was a bystander in his body while someone else caused the muscles to move, to obey commands other than his own. The guard seemed as surprised as he was, but he felt no change of expression, no imperative to withdraw from his actions—just a distant sensation of being an observer of himself. The corridor around him faded from his awareness as a memory took hold, scenes of another time and place when he had held a weapon much like this one.

Although he was certain that he remained in the passageway, even the odors of the past came to him: the smells of damp foliage, wet earth, fear-soaked perspiration . . . blood. His combat uniform was covered with large splashes of it; none was his. That, he knew, was not likely to continue. He waited with the other members of his small team, listening.

"What do you we do now?" a young female in gray fatigues, one of her forearms wrapped with a damp bandage, whispered.

Rusty studied her for a moment. Too young, he thought. Way too young to see this kind of carnage. "We entrench ourselves and wait," he told her, his gaze sweeping the other soldiers as well. "Let said they'd be back for us."

She swallowed nervously, but accepted his statement. I just wish I knew it was true, he thought silently. His troop was on the starship's assault crew's path back to their lander, so there was every chance they would be forced to come back this way. In the meantime, his team's sole goal was to stay alive and evade detection until that happened. At his signal, they separated, fading into the heavy-foliage. The small clearing became quiet again.

Rusty felt himself shiver. It took him only a moment to realize that it was not a result of the clammy, cold environment of the alien rain forest. The unsanctioned—although still widely used—drugs he had taken earlier to augment his reaction time were wearing off. That's the problem with those hyperstims . . . he considered glumly as another tremor run through him.

He glanced around at the bushes, wondering how many of the others were in the same shape. Not many, he guessed, thinking that his own body had probably built up a considerable tolerance to the drugs because of his other . . . recreational uses. He had perhaps half a dosage left in his pack. It would not give him the high of ultra-awareness, but it should stave off the worst of the withdrawal effects until he could get to the ship.

The sound of leaves being trod into the sodden earth seized his waning attention. Even though his hands tightened around his pulse rifle, he presumed it was dark-haired officer and her assault team returning. The thought was obliterated by the sudden appearance of a bright white-red flash that filled the clearing. The passage of time seemed to slow between the moment of the flash and the sensation of being tossed back by the concussive wave. He slid along the muddy ground, but so slowly he could not be certain that it was actually happening.

Time then seemed to resume its normal speed with agonizing swiftness. He still trembled, but now from a new cause. His left side felt strangely numb. He thought it should hurt, but the pain seemed surprisingly remote. He looked up to see a dark-clad figure hunched over him. Its oily snout opened slightly, exposing rows of small, needle-sharp teeth. It grunted something at him. The harsh, grating noise issuing from beyond those teeth told him that his communications unit, with its integrated translator, had been damaged or lost in the gray-brown muck around him. He tried to rise, but his muscles were reluctant to obey. He managed, taking far more effort than he thought it should, to raise his body a few centimeters before collapsing back into the greasy sludge.

What passed for a smile on the alien's face broadened and it made several additional sounds that sounded to Rusty like it was choking on gravel. Its expression changed abruptly and Rusty noticed a dark blossom of shining black ooze begin to pour from the alien's chest. Its eyes registered confused surprise as it released the hold on its weapon. The rifle hit the mud with a light slapping down, followed by the much louder splat of the alien soldier doing the same. It twitched once, its entire body shuddered, and then it remained still.

He heard muted sounds of explosions—or it might have weapons fire, he could not be certain. His numbness began to recede, dissipating like a cloud torn by the wind. The throbbing, burning pain in his side told him that he had injured—badly. Trying to rise again, he nearly lost consciousness from the flood of pain his effort brought.

He heard the wet sound of a boot in the mud. Moving only his eyes, he looked ahead to find the dark-haired woman staring down at him with an expression of casual disgust. "Leave them to the Argolians," she said. She gave Rusty one more glance and then marched away, pausing only to adjust the pack on her shoulder before disappearing into the foliage. Rusty sank back, feeling the sludge start to cover him. He turned his head, trying to see if any of his team had survived. His vision was clouded by mud and pain and he was unable to see unclearly. He knew he was going to die, but whether from his wound or the agony of withdrawal he did not know. Feeling the cool mud against his skin, he remembered that he had hoped to meet death in a place far different than this.

Another footstep sounded near him, this one smaller and lighter than the one before. He blinked, managing to clear his vision, and stared up into a pale, narrow face. She had wide dark eyes, almond-shaped and missing the pupils of a human. He could make out the tips of her ears poking through her short hair. There was something overtly menacing about her, but not in the same way the Argolian soldier had been. He felt as though he was slipping away, sliding toward an abyss that was both frightening and comforting at the same time. The pale alien knelt before him, studying his injury. Her dark eyes flickered for a moment and then she reached out to touch him.

He wanted to scream as her hand pressed against his wound. Then the pain stopped and he felt sudden warmth filling that side of his body. The warmth faded and he found that he could breathe easier. He knew that he was still badly wounded, but it felt less immediately fatal now. He tried to raise himself on his elbows and received a sharp look from the dark-eyed alien.

"Remain still," she said. Her voice was high and quiet, but carried an undeniable tone of command. Rusty relaxed back to the ground, watching as she pulled a cylinder from the belt at her waist. She checked it and then pressed it against his right shoulder.

Within moments, the pain subsided almost entirely. He found that he could also move easily now.

"Come," she said, rising to her feet. "Little time remains." She waited while he got to his feet. When he reached down for the Argolian's weapon, she said, "Leave it. Come."

She headed lightly into the foliage, seeming to Rusty for a moment like a woodland nymph. Rusty followed, staggering slightly, and tried not to think about the gaping wound in his side.

He reached the landing area several paces behind her. She paused at the ramp, watching him with her dark, impenetrable eyes as he shambled toward the ship. His boot caught on the edge of ramp and he stumbled, falling onto his back. The impact of his head against the metal jarred his teeth, filling him with a wave of dizziness. He waited a moment, took a deep breath to clear his mind, and then tried to rise.

His arms collapsed, refusing to bear his weight. The sense of vertigo returned. His vision swirled into incomprehensible images that dissolved into darkness.

The next time he saw her face, he was laying on padded platform in the ship's infirmary. Although his mind remained mildly fuzzy, he could tell that his injuries had been healed.

"You will stay with us now," she said, staring down at him with an expression that he could not decipher.

That expression returned to him now, in the corridor, as she stared at him. The flash of memories had come, gone, and his hold on the weapon had never wavered.

#

The First watched as the second shift assumed their stations. The sudden disruption unsettled him for no reasons he could name. He briefly considered ordering those at their posts to remain there, but realized that, other than to satisfy his own sense of discomfiture, he had no real reason to do so. He waited while the crewmen exchanged status reports in barely audible whispers and then nearly breathed an audible sigh of relief as the last of them left the bridge and the relative quiet was restored.

He was silently grateful for the older officer’s request to stay. Although he was uncertain of the man’s loyalties, he was confident that Hawke’s primary focus would be to protect the Sapphire Night, regardless of who commanded her.

Although he stared at the stars on the main screen, he did not see them. His thoughts were elsewhere, wandering among the confusing events of the past few days. One person might hold the key to it all too, he thought. What was taking them so long to bring him to the bridge? Even if the Chief was truly the traitor, or in league with whomever it was, Thompson could not see him overcoming two armed security guards—not without considerable assistance. At least one of them, even under those circumstances, should be able to raise an alarm. Why was it taking so long then?

He scowled, feeling some of the tension drain away. Of course, he thought, that alien witch was down there. She was probably issuing her own orders, delaying things. He considered sending another set of guards to check on the situation. Looking around the bridge, he decided against it—he felt too vulnerable, even here, while the sensors were not operating.

Ship's Log: November 28

He turned his head at the sound of the hatch opening, expecting to see the Chief. Instead, he saw several crew members enter, escorted by a pair of guards. His hand moved reflexively toward his weapon at the intrusion until he saw their faces, confused by the strange reception they received. Hawkes relaxed with a quiet sigh, deliberately moving his hand away from his waist. Glancing at the chronometer, it confirmed what he had just realized. The shift was over; these crewmen were here to relieve the current shift.

Pyrafox rose from his station, waited until the second shift navigator was seated, and then lowered his red-furred head to quietly convey the situation. Beside him, the young woman at the helm performed a similar routine. A few paces away from him, Hawkes saw the ensign waiting patiently to replace him at his post.

"First," he said, pausing until Thompson had turned in his direction before continuing. "I'd prefer to remain until the sensors are back online."

The First regarded him carefully. Hawkes noticed his cautious, almost suspicious, gaze. Thompson finally nodded slowly. "As you wish." His eyes moved the ensign standing beside the Tactical Officer. "Take the secondary Science station for now."

The ensign saluted and moved away from Hawkes. Thompson turned his attention back to the main screen, lost in whatever thoughts he was having. Hawkes rested his hands against his console, looking once more at the status of the weapons, prepared to wait.

#

They rode in relative silence. The sound of the atmosphere rushing past the vehicle, and the ridiculously loud roar of its engine, filled the inside of the vehicle. The pilot reached toward her with one hand. For a moment, she thought he was going to attempt to touch her, but he stopped to adjust a control on the console between them. A loud burst of static erupted within the interior of the vehicle. The pilot murmured something that Devereux suspect was an obscenity, but not any terms that she recognized.

The pilot turned the small knob, the pitch of the static changed. Occasional voices managed to break through, but rapidly deteriorated into unintelligible noise. With a grumbled sigh, the pilot switched off the apparently malfunctioning communications system and settled back into his seat. Devereux looked back the window, seeing the vehicle pass the occasional flash of a green and white or yellow and black sign. The first seemed to indicate distances to specific landmarks; the latter appeared to provide warnings, but Devereux could not decipher the meaning of most of them.

The man in the rear seat grunted as they passed one of the signs. "I could use to take a piss, Cliff."

Devereux had no idea what the man meant, but the faint blush that colored the cheeks of the pilot—apparently named Cliff—told her that it was something either vulgar or potentially embarrassing.

"Hold it," Cliff said with quiet irritation. "The next stop isn't for miles."

Devereux heard the man move behind her, the material of the seat making a squeaking noise as he shifted from side to side.

"Come on, man," he said, his voice pitched almost in a whine. "Needs are needs," he added, his tone taking on a strangely ominous tenor. Devereux saw him staring at her in the mirror, a thin, crooked smile on his lips.

Cliff made a quiet noise somewhere between a sigh and growl. He stared intently ahead, and then adjusted a lever near the steering controls. It resulted in a rhythmic clicking noise. She had no idea as to its purpose, but guessed it must be an indicator of some kind of countdown. Glancing at the pilot, she caught the hint of something in his eyes as well. If he sensed her studying him, he did not react or look back at her.

"Just pull off somewhere, dude," the man in the rear prompted.

The pilot guided the vehicle into another section of the roadway delineated by a series of broken white lines. A short distance further ahead, he turned off it along a narrow road and continued for a few moments before pulling to one side. Tan dust billowed outside the window and then slowly dispersed. Devereux heard the man in the rear compartment move along the material of the seat. At the same time, Cliff unfastened his restraining straps. Devereux was wondering whether she should do the same when she saw something blur flash past her vision and then a heavily-muscled arm closed around her neck.

It pulled her backward, pressing her hard against the seat. The arm held her tightly, giving her just enough freedom to breath. She swallowed, feeling the pressure against her throat. Her hand darted toward the knife in her sheathed in her boot. It was slapped away quickly as the pilot leaned toward her, his mouth turned upward in a threatening grin.

"Don't try it, lady," he said. His eyes met hers in a piercing stare. Certain that he had her cooperation, his eyes moved lower, slowing at they followed the shape of her flight suit.

The arm around her neck tightened, increasing its hold on her. She was certain that could injure him sufficiently to break free, but not before the pilot—Cliff—could react. Instead, she waited silently for her opportunity. The pilot studied her for a moment, as if not entirely confident about his next actions. She watched his eyes change as he appeared to reach a decision. His hand moved out toward her, reaching for the fastenings on the front of her outfit. She involuntarily tried to shift away, but the arm around her neck tightened its hold, near choking her.

A low snarl, muffled further by her compressed windpipe, sounded from her throat as the pilot unfastened the tunic to her waist. With both hands, he whipped it open, exposing her bare chest.

"Nice," he said appreciatively, and then looked up with a semi-feral smile at his partner. Seeing her sufficiently restrained, he placed his hands on her ample breasts, squeezing them lightly. "Should be fun . . ." he murmured, his eyes growing distant.

Fury drove her thoughts as she felt his hands on her. Only the arm pressed against her throat tempered her response. Her thoughts focused on the knife resting in her boot. It would all have to timed precisely, she thought, noting that her mobility was also limited by the safety restraints. She hated that her body responded to his touch despite her anger. His eyes darted up toward his companion and then back at her. They were bright with a kind of malicious anticipation. His strange gaze remained locked with hers as she felt his hand move down along her stomach, over the clasp of her belt, and between her legs. Eyes narrowing, she squeezed her legs together, bringing her a reproaching glare. At that moment, she reached the limit of her unwilling acquiescence.

With a sharp movement of her leg upward, she drove her knee into the man's abdomen. He gasped, eyes bulging as he fought to draw breath. He tried to move backward, but was entangled in his own limbs in the limited space of the vehicle. In a quick motion, she had the knife in her hand and plunged it deep into the arm holding her. A scream sounded from behind her and the arm withdrew, trailing a thick line of bright red blood. In a quick, smooth motion, she brought the knife forward, driving it into the heart of the still-gaping pilot. He made soft, gurgling noises as he collapsed on top of her, forcing the knife deeper into his chest. A deep spasm shook his body, and then he remained still.

Devereux slid the knife free and hit the release for the restraints. Behind her, the wounded man made whimpering sounds as he cradled his arms, his fingers wrapped around the hemorrhaging gash. He stared at Devereux with open terror as she faced him. For a moment, she considered letting him live. He feared her now, and she needed someone to pilot the vehicle. She remembered the sensation of his arm hard against her throat. He barely cried out as she slit his.

She shoved the body of the pilot aside. He landed sideways into the other seat, smearing blood like random, shining brushstrokes across the black interior of the vehicle. She found the release for the door and opened it, stepping into the late morning heat of the desert. With an annoyed snarl of disgust, she refastened the front of her flight suit, noting the bright splashes of blood on it.

Staring into the dim interior of the vehicle, she saw the limp forms of the two men. Those could be disposed of without too much effort, she decided. And she had a vehicle now, but no real idea how to pilot it. It was only her second day on this world, and her situation had not really begun to improve.

Ship's Log: November 27

Elizabeth quickly encountered another wall. She slid back along her path until she found a corner. So far, space had been large enough for her to turn around in, but not tall enough for her to stand. She had tried crouching, but that had grown uncomfortable very quickly. Turning around, she sat with her back wedged against the corner and wiped at her forehead. It was beginning to feel grow warmer in here, she realized. She could feel that sticky sort of perspiration forming along the back of her neck where her tied-back tail of hair rested.

The surface of the platform and walls did not feel particularly warm—at least not those nearest to her. The heat seemed to be coming from the air or from the other side of her small chamber. She moved in that direction next, for keep under hand running along the seam between the wall and platform beneath. After crawling less than three meters, by her mental reckoning, she encountered another corner. It felt definitely warmer here. She reached out into the darkness and touched the wall. It was very warm and its temperature seemed to be increasing quickly.

She could now hear a faint thrumming noise, something like sounded like a distant vibration. Pausing for a moment, she was not certain whether she could actually feel it through the palm of her hand or not. The temperature had definitely risen. The air began to feel warm and close and she realized that she may have been wrong earlier. There might not be a source of fresh air; the size of the space had given her the illusion that there was plenty to breathe. She backed away rapidly from the quickly heating wall, bumping into another one to her left. Part of her mind noted that she was in a rectangular enclosure, as that direction seemed narrower. She continued crawl backward, but the heat seemed to follow her in the closed space.

Perspiration began to soak her skin, making her uniform feel uncomfortably slick. She reached up and unfastened the neckline, bringing only mild relief, but it was something, she thought. As she artificial arm banged against the wall, her breath caught for a moment, fearing that she might be heard. She then turned, her hands roaming along the surface of the wall. Whoever left her here had apparently not cared—or had, in fact, fully known—the danger of the location. It was unlikely, she decided, that they were still waiting on the other side of the wall in case she made undue noise.

She began to beat against the surface with her fists, shouting over the increasingly loud throbbing sound. Although she could barely hear it herself, she hoped that someone nearby might without it being drowned out by the head-pounding acoustics of the enclosed compartment.

Elizabeth paused for a moment, listening for a response, but heard nothing. She began again, finding it harder to draw breath. The air had become scorching hot. It burned her throat as she inhaled, trying not to gasp from her exertions. For a moment, she sagged against the metal wall. Even in the heat of the closed space, it felt mildly cool against her forehead. The brief respite, combined by the cooler sensation, invigorated her. She renewed her efforts.

It took only a few moments for her to tire again, drained of energy by the oppressive heat. She was certain that the available breathable air was probably beginning to run low as well. Staring into the unseen wall in front of her, she swore softly. Her uniform clung to her, making it difficult for her to maintain purchase on the slick platform where she knelt. She considered stripping out of it, but begrudged the precious moments it would take. In a burst of frustration, she hurled herself against the wall, landing hand against her prosthetic arm. The sound of the impact was loud in the small chamber, startling her.

Her face formed a tight smile. She focused her strength into her right shoulder, using her natural hand and arm for leverage against the struts of her artificial arm, and slammed the cybernetic limb against the wall. It made a loud, satisfying sound. She was tempted to stop and probe the wall for dents, but decided against it, focusing her attention on the next strike. She repeated the action, and then again. If there's in the area, she thought, they must have heard that.

She swung again, the metal hand impacting solidly against the invisible wall. Motes of light danced across her vision. She blinked and they disappeared for a moment, and then flickered back into existence. She was on the verge of losing consciousness, she knew, gathering her strength for another attack against the metal wall. Her arm hit squarely again, but she lacked the strength this time to right herself. Instead, she slid along the surface of the wall, panting for breath, her head pounding. From the lack of oxygen or the pervasive noise, she did not know.

Her eyes might have closed, but she could not tell the difference. Long, wet strands of her hair lay plastered along her cheek. She lacked the energy to brush them aside. Trying to breathe, she could only find short, shallows breaths. Part of her wanted to cry in frustration, but she lacked the strength even for that. She thought she heard voices, but thought it might be her oxygen-deprived brain playing tricks on her, forming word-like sounds out of the semi-rhythmic background noise.

A gray mist filled her world. She was distantly grateful for the change, but it quickly transformed into thick clouds. They expanded until there was only darkness again. Unable to find breathe, her eyes closed, and she surrendered to them.

#

Hawkes looked at Thompson for a moment before obeying his order. He wondered what had made the First change his mind. Banks and Higuchi had both been under the Chief Engineer's command, but Hawkes could see nothing that might implicate the Chief in their deaths. What troubled him more was the report of the missing security logs. Someone was trying to cover their tracks, but was evidently in too much of a hurry or lacked the knowledge to do it correctly. Even if one of the specialists could retrieve any the data, it would be just as likely to raise questions or provide answers because of its corrupted state.

Looking down at the status displays on his console, he noted that the weapons and defense systems remained at full readiness. They were ready for a fight . . . if there was to be one. He studied the starscape on the main screen. If there was a traitor among them, had they found a way to inform the Captain that the Sapphire Night was currently sensor-blind? All incoming and outgoing communications were always monitored, he knew. And if the Communications Officer was the conspirator they sought? Nearly anyone among the crew could be suspected of treason, he considered. A certain level of distrust was always present on board a starship. Any other behavior tended to shorten one's lifespan considerably. An act of mutiny, such as they had just experienced, tended to just intensify the situation, although only for a short period.

He watched the tension in the First's posture. Thompson was a coiled snake, ready to strike. For the moment, the Chief was his intended target. Hawkes held grave doubts that he was the correct one. For all his other weaknesses, Hawkes could not see the Chief Engineer as having the will to either support a mutiny or to undermine one. As long as he and his engineering crew remained safe, the Chief would try to keep himself and them out of the both the proverbial and actual lines of fire.

Hawkes glanced at the chronometer. He could understand the First’s unease. Although only a few minutes had passed, it seemed like much longer. He, too, felt vulnerable with the ship’s sensors offline. The guards posted at the airlocks and docking hatches would help if there were boarded, but would be of little use if the ship itself was attacked. He found a little reassurance in knowing that any ship that approached them would be doing so from a distance beyond their sensor range. It would take any attacking force some time to reach them. Not, unfortunately, eighty minutes.

A signal chimed on his console. He read the message and then looked toward Thompson. “Sir,” he said, speaking just loud enough to draw the First’s attention.

Thompson turned to him with flash of irritation, but it faded quickly. “What is it?”

“The security teams have completed their drills,” Hawkes reported. “Do you wish them to continue?”

The First stared at with barely disguised incredulity. The Tactical Officer met his gaze evenly. Even at the tensest of moments, Hawkes thought, the minutiae of command continued.

Thompson scowled and then answered. “Were the results acceptable?”

Hawkes looked down at the display and read through the statistics again. The responses times were adequate, but there had been too many “deaths” among the defending forces. That implied carelessness and lack of focus. It was a common problem, Hawkes knew. So much effort was spent on protecting oneself that it was difficult to get crewmembers to function as a cohesive team. He provided his analysis to the First, omitting his personal observation.

Thompson’s eyes narrowed at the report. His voice was cold as he spoke. “Schedule time in the arena for those who failed,” he ordered. “I will challenge them myself.” He turned abruptly back to face the main view screen.

Hawkes fought to keep his face expressionless. “Yes, First,” he said and relayed the orders. He could do little for those men, he knew. Most would survive, but it might be some time before those who did would return to full duty after facing Thompson in the arena.

Ship's Log: November 26

She reached for a pulse at his neck, but found none as expected. Blood had soaked through the uniform and left dark smears on the metal deck as she rolled the crewman over to inspect his condition further. It looked as though something large had been driven into his chest, she observed, noting the shattered ribs and torn flesh. Removing the portable scanner from her belt, she passed it over the dead crewman several times, puzzled over the readings. There were multiple wounds, at different angles, as if he had been assaulted by more than one attacker. She looked up, seeing a trail of dried blood running down the wall above him.

She scanned the bulkhead. The blood belonged to the dead crewman. There were no other apparent traces of biological material from someone else. The identity of the killer would, once again, remain another mystery to be solved. She removed her communications unit and signaled for medics to come for the body. That would make three autopsies to complete now, she noted silently to herself. The thought brought back to her mind the fading image of the hand. It rekindled her unease. For the moment, though, she felt relatively safe having three crewmen there with her.

Looking at the crewman's shattered chest again, she then turned and studied the lengths of corridor on each side of her. The guard had been struck by something very large and with considerable mass, yet there was nothing in the vicinity that matched those specifications.

She looked toward the open bulkhead, wondering if there was missing component that might have been used as such a weapon. She needed the Chief's knowledge, but she needed him to relinquish the weapon and assist her. Would he obey her orders? she wondered. Something told her that issuing commands would not provide the desired effect in this instance. She turned and studied the scene there, wondering how to proceed.

#

Thompson glared at Rusty as the Chief Engineer left the bridge. That man is a liability to this ship, he thought. He never understood why Devereux had allowed him to remain on board, much less given him dominion over the Engineering section. Fear, it seemed, held special sway over him as well. Under the current circumstances, that made his loyalties more than suspect. His addictions were well-known, so he could be controlled, but Thompson wondered whether it was worth the effort. There were others among the crew, the missing Lieutenant for example, who could easily make a more than adequate replacement.

He studied the stars on the main view screen for a long moment, while he considered the options. With the fate of the Captain still uncertain, he decided, now was not the time for such actions. Later, perhaps, after matters were more settled. Moving toward the helm station, his eyes remained forward. They should be reaching their original position, he guessed, looking at the pattern of the stars displayed on the main screen.

"We've rrreached ourrr orrriginal coorrrdinates, sirrr," Pyrafox said.

Thompson nodded, acknowledging the navigator's report. "Hold position," he ordered, and moved away from the helm station.

He was not certain why he had ordered them to return here. It had been Fear's original order, not his. In light of the Chief Engineer's report, it made as much sense as anything else, but he had no intention of waiting here indefinitely for answers to a half-formed theory. Devereux was either alive or dead. If she was trapped forever in slipstream, then she might as well be dead as far as he was concerned. He had never heard of anyone returning from such a snare. Once lost to the void, such ships tended to remain so.

"Sensorrrs rrremain clearrr, sirrr," the navigator reported.

Thompson swore quietly under his breath. "I want a complete diagnostic of the sensor systems," he ordered. "Before the end of the shift," he added, his tone carrying a barely veiled threat of repercussions if they failed to comply.

"Yes, sirrr," Pyrafox replied, and issued the appropriate orders to the maintenance teams.

The First moved over toward Hawkes. "Keep weapons on standby," he said. "With the sensors offline, we'll probably get little warning if we're attacked."

"Yes, First," the Tactical Officer responded. Thompson was certain that he caught a faint gleam from the older man's eye. He focused his attention intently on his console as he worked its controls.

Thompson waited a moment, eyeing the main screen again, and then moved back toward his usual station. He walked slowly, thinking. Waiting was not something he did well. He preferred action over debate, willing to concern himself with cleaning up the mess afterward. Although he respected the balance that Devereux brought to that aspect of her command, often the seemingly endless discussions fueled his frustration to the point of almost complete distraction. At this moment, though, there was truly very little he could do.

“Sir?” Hawkes called out. Someone in the old man’s tone made Thompson approach the Tactical station rather then have Hawkes shout his report across the bridge.

“What is it, Lieutenant?” Thompson asked. He tried to keep his voice even, not wanting to reveal his sudden concern.

“Another crewman has been found dead,” Hawkes reported quietly. “Lieutenant Banks is missing from her assigned duty location.”

Thompson stared at the older man. At this rate, there won’t be a crew left for me to command, Thompson thought, a moment later realized how absurd and misplaced the consideration was.

“The Chief Engineer has asked to participate in the search,” Hawkes continued. “I told the guards to have him returned to his post in Engineering.”

Thompson nodded in slow agreement. The security lockdown should have prevented this. He looked uneasily at the guards standing at the hatchways. What has gone wrong? Only a day had passed since the Captain’s flight. They knew there was a traitor among the crew, but had that person turned to murder now? And, if so, why?

Looking toward Hawkes, the aged Tactical Officer only stared back at him, his expression unreadable. Thompson found no reassurance there, no answers. He turned toward the red-furred, alien navigator.

“How long before the sensors are back online?”

Pyrafox checked a reading on one of his status displays. “At least eighty minutes, sirrr,” the navigator replied.

Eighty minutes, Thompson thought. Over an hour during which they would be essentially blind and vulnerable to attack. He resisted the urge to pace again.

“First,” Hawkes addressed him again, startling Thompson out of his spiraling reverie.

“Yes?” Thompson said, turning to face the Tactical Officer.

The elder officer regarded him for a moment before speaking. “The diagnostic sweeps on Decks Two and Four are complete,” he reported. “They found nothing unusual.”

Thompson felt an unexpected surge of anger. If the diagnostic sweeps had shown something, it might have provided them with some clues as to what was happening to the ship.

“There’s something else, sir,” Hawkes continued.

Thompson stared back at him, waiting.

“They verified that Ensign Niguchi accessed the logs for that section on Deck Two.” Hawkes met Thompson’s eyes as he finished. “However,” he went on. “The logs have been corrupted—an apparent attempt to erase the data.”

“Can it be retrieved?” Thompson asked.

Hawkes answered with a slow shake of his head. “Unlikely,” he said. “But they are working on it.”

Thompson felt suddenly cold. He could understand someone trying to cover their tracks after committing an act of sabotage, even to the point of committing murder. The Lieutenant, Banks, had been assigned to investigate and repair both sites of presumed sabotage. Coincidence? Thompson wondered. Was she not truly missing, but hiding from discovery of her treachery? Or was the Chief Engineer’s insistence on searching for her himself actually an attempt to subvert the efforts of the security teams? He had, after all, been the one who posted her to both duty assignments—and he had specifically requested her to further evaluate the readings from Devereux’s slipstream jump.

He turned to Hawkes. “Rescind your order,” he told the Tactical Officer. “Have them bring the Chief to the bridge.” His gaze focused on the bulkhead past Hawke’s station. “I have a few questions for him.”

#

Author's Note: This section appears ouf sequence. It is included at this point because the muse felt the need to further explore this scene at this point.

Fear carefully observed the trio behind her, seeing that the situation had not changed. Beyond them was the exposed interior of the bulkhead. The open case of tools told her that someone had been working here. She looked down: it had not been the security guard. It must have been someone from the Chief's engineering crew.

"Who was working here?" she asked.

The Chief's expression tightened, his eyes brightening although with pain. "Lieutenant Banks," he replied. His voice carried a rough husky tone.

She now understood the Chief's concern. The Lieutenant had not responded to the call from the bridge and now she was missing as well.

"We will locate her," Fear said, standing.

"They told me to go back to Engineering," the Chief explained, his anger evident.

Fear looked over at the guards and then back at the Chief. "We will all search," she said. "Return the weapon."

The Chief continued to hesitate. A pair of medics arrived at that moment, slowing abruptly to a stop at the scene in front of them. The Chief's eyes darted to them and he sagged suddenly, lowering the weapon. The armed guard stepped forward, his weapon trained on the Chief. The Chief offered the weapon, letting the guard remove it from his hand. He checked the weapon quickly and then returned it to his companion.

Fear motioned to the medics, who kept their eyes on the now-disarmed Chief and two guards as they moved cautiously past. They worked quickly while the others waited in silence. The guards kept a watchful eye on the Chief while Fear supervised the medics' activities. When they departed, the dead crewman on a litter between them, the Chief's gaze moved to the stained bulkhead.

"I should call someone from maintenance to take care of that," he said flatly.

"Not yet," Fear said, stopping him before he could reach for his communications unit. "Evidence might remain."

The Chief nodded absently. Fear lifted her medical scanner again, sweeping the area. "She is not here," she reported after several moments. She watched as the Chief's head lowered in defeat.

"It does not mean she is dead," Fear added. "That would be indicated," she said, showing him the medical scanner.

He straightened slightly, some hope returning to his expression. "She can't be off the ship," the Chief said.

"Shielded then?" Fear offered.

The Chief looked thoughtful. "Possibly," and he went silent. Fear watched as his eyes unfocused with that inward stare that humans got when they were deep in their thoughts. "There's a few places where that might be possible," he said. "Junctions where we've got a lot of radiation or raw plasma going through." He looked even more troubled by the realization.

Fear silently noted that if the Lieutenant were still alive, she would require treatment for the radiation before returning to duty. It might also affect the proper functioning of her cybernetic components.

"There's maybe a few dozen places on the ship where that's the case," the Chief continued. He got that distant look again. "Maybe a dozen or so that would be big enough to hide something the size of a body in." He nearly choked on the last words.

"Chief," she said quietly. "Perhaps she lives."

The Chief shot her a look filled with anger.

"They left the Security body for us to find," she explained, cutting him off before he could speak. "Why did they not also leave the Lieutenant's?"

The Chief's expression remained firmly set, but he seemed calmer.

"Where on this deck?" Fear asked, directing his attention back to the immediate issue.

After thinking for a moment, the Chief pointed down the aft corridor. "Down there, about twenty meters or so," he said. "There's an access crawlway that leads to a routing junction." He frowned. "Tight fit, though."

"Show us."

With a quick nod, the Chief headed down the corridor with Fear and the two guards following close behind.

Ship's Log: November 25

“Proceed with your report,” Thompson said, the edge in his tone giving a clear indication that he was losing patience with the reticent engineer.

Passing glances at the First and Fear, the Chief walked over to one of the engineering monitoring stations and activated its displays. Looking over his shoulder, he placed the same image on the main screen. He explained the correlations he had discovered in his research.

“So,” Thompson said after the Chief Engineer had finished presenting his analysis. “The Captain might be gone, lost in the slipstream . . .” It was half-thought, half-question.

The Chief shook his head and pointed at the screen. “There’s no way of knowing,” he said. “It’s just a theory based on what information I could find.” His large shoulders moved in a sigh. “She might also be out there, alive, waiting for a chance to come back. There’s no way of knowing.”

“For now,” Thompson concluded. Something in his expression troubled Hawkes. He stared at the Chief Engineer. “Can we reproduce the same effects, follow her course?”

The Chief shook his head immediately. “It’s not that easy,” he told the First. “We need to account for the differences in mass of the vessels in proportion to their velocity. There’s enough variance in these readings that it’s just as likely we’ll end up diving into the middle of the Pentaris sun as find the Captain.”

“We cannot wait here indefinitely,” Fear stated. Everyone turned to face her; it was the first time she had spoken since the Chief had given his report.

Thompson studied her and then the Chief in silence for several moments. “We must find the Captain,” he announced.

Hawkes mentally acknowledged all of the inferences present in the First’s statement. Without proof of the Captain’s death, the computer would not unlock the remaining command codes. As long as the possibility remained that Devereux was out there, alive, she was a threat to the ship.

The Chief positioned himself between Fear and the First, addressing them both. “We’ve have a better chance if I could pull Lieutenant Banks off her repair duty. She’s understands the theoretical side of this much better than I do.”

There was a momentary pause before Thompson nodded his agreement. “The repairs must be completed,” he stated firmly.

“I’ll assign another team to it, sir,” the Chief said. “We’ll get it done.”

The First’s expression indicated that he expected nothing less. He turned to the ensign at the communications station.

“Have Lieutenant Banks report to the bridge immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” the young man acknowledged and spoke quietly into his headset. He waited, and then repeated his words again.

“Sir,” the ensign said, swallowing nervously. “She’s not responding.”

Thompson turned toward one of the guards positioned at the hatchways, his expression darkening. “Bring her,” he commanded. He turned toward the Chief with a narrow look.

Hawkes watched the Chief Engineer grow pale under the First’s stare. He suspected, though, that it had little to do with the First’s baleful glare.

#

Rusty fought back a shiver. He felt the First’s fierce gaze, but his concerns were elsewhere. Lizzie! he thought, his stomach sinking at the ensign’s report. Ignoring the First’s burning stare, he started after the security guard.

“You were not dismissed, Chief,” came Thompson’s voice from behind him.

Rusty turned, fighting back an urge to snap at the First in frustration. “One of my engineers is missing, sir,” he said. His voice came out flat, devoid of the anger growing inside him.

Thompson stared back at him for several seconds, seeming to search for other motives. He spoke to one of the guards. “Go with him,” Thompson told the guard. “Watch everything he does.”

“Yes, sir,” the guard answered smartly, taking a position next to Rusty.

Rusty gave the First a quick salute and then left the bridge, his security escort in two. He resisted the urge to break into a run, but feared that the guard might shoot first at such an action, rather than wait for an explanation. He walked quickly, nearly forcing both guards to jog to keep pace with him. As they rounded the curve of the passageway, she spied a dark form sprawled on the deck. Surrendering to his barely contained dread, he broke into a run. He stopped as he reached the figure, seeing the wide bands of blood soaking through the uniform. He knew at once from the uniform colors that it was not Elizabeth.

He remained kneeling, looking along both lengths of the corridor, afraid that he might see her lying there as well. The passageway was empty. He looked down at the guard, checked for a pulse at his neck, but knew there would not be one. With a strange detachment, he noticed that they way that this crewman had been killed was far bloodier than the previous two. Had the killer been in a hurry? he wondered. Or is there more than one of them?

“Is he dead, sir?” one of the guards asked him.

Rusty looked up, trying not look incredulous. “Thoroughly,” he remarked dryly. “Let them know we found the guard,” he said. “No sign of the Lieutenant yet.”

He rose, glancing down the corridor again. Thompson’s lockdown doesn’t seem to have helped much, he considered sourly. We have another dead crewman and one missing. He felt cold at the thought, remembering how he had found the other “missing” crewmember. He pulled his communications unit from his waist. “Bridge,” he called into it. “Do you have a location on the Lieutenant?”

There was a pause and the murmuring sound of distant voices before Hawkes answered. “We’re not receiving her transponder signal, Chief,” the Tactical Officer said. Rusty thought he had heard a note of sympathy in the older officer’s tone.

Images of Elizabeth mutilated body flashed through Rusty’s mind, seeing her in his thoughts the same way that Hiroki had been murdered. With a muffled curse, he stood up and faced one of the guards.

“Give me your weapon,” he said, holding out his hand. The guard exchanged a glance with his partner. “Now, damn it!” Rusty raged. “Or I’ll beat you down and take it.”

The other guard nodded once and the first one handed Rusty his weapon, keeping his eyes on the Chief the entire time. Rusty checked the charge in it and then looked back up at the pair. “Come on,” he said. “We’re going to find the Lieutenant.”

The guards hesitated. Rusty let out a low snarl of frustration. “Fine,” he said slowly. “Call it in . . . but hurry.”

The postures of both of the men relaxed slightly at his concession. He waited with rapidly diminishing patience as they conferred with the bridge for orders. Their expressions grew tighter as the conversation progressed, during which they actually said very little, Rusty noticed. Finally, the one who still retained his weapon turned to Rusty.

“You’re to return to your station, Chief,” he said, his voice taking on a hard edge. “This is now a security matter.”

“Damn right it is,” he growled. “And I’m still going with you.”

The guard raised his weapon. “Return the weapon, Chief,” he said, his voice cold. “And we’ll escort you back to the engineering deck.”

Rusty looked down at the weapon in his hand. He was outnumbered, he thought, but only one of them had a weapon. Quickly, he surveyed them. They might be specially trained, he thought, but I’ve got at least thirty kilos on either one of them.

“No,” he said quietly as he raised his own weapon, deliberating spacing his next words. “I’m not going anywhere.”

#

Fear listened to the guard’s report. “I will go,” she said.

The First stared at her for a moment and then nodded his agreement. Noting with curiosity that he did not assign her an escort, she left the bridge.

What is happening? she wondered as she made her way through the corridors. While such incidents had not been completely unknown under the Captain’s leadership, she could not recall a time when they had occurred in such rapid succession. It seemed as through someone was methodically eliminating specific members of the crew. But to what purpose? If it truly was not a series of unrelated acts, then there was a common link between all of those who had been found dead. She made a mental note to check the personnel records of the dead crewmen for possible correlations.

She descended the passageway to Deck Two and stopped abruptly at the scene that greeted her. The Chief Engineer faced two security guards with his weapon drawn and aimed at them. She then realized that the weapon was not his; it was the type issued to Security personnel. One of the guards, she saw now, was missing his weapon. Her hand moved toward her knife.

This was unusual behavior for the Chief, she thought to herself. He was not known carrying his sidearm, much less wielding it. She studied him carefully for a moment, but observed none of the obvious physical signs of drug-induced psychosis. Something else had driven him to this uncharacteristic action.

“Chief,” she said, stepping forward, her hand ready at her knife. “Release the weapon.”

His eyes flickered toward her, but the hand holding the weapon did not move. “No.”

The harsh defiance in his tone surprised her. She had never seen him display this strength of will before. What has so driven him? His behavior concerned her greatly. Her hold over him, she realized, might not be as strong as she had believed. For the moment, though, she sought a way to resolve the stalemate.

“I will examine the body,” she told them, stepping forward. Her hand was ready on her knife. The Chief could only cover one of them at a time. It should be easy enough, she thought, to disarm him as I pass. She was reluctant to try. As quick as she might be able to attack, there was a chance that he might still manage to fire at her. At that close range, it could be instantly fatal.

He allowed her to walk past him without incident, his eyes shifting between her and the guards. Both of the guards, she could tell, were waiting for an opportunity of their own. Turning her attention to the figure before her, she knelt and began examining the crewman’s body.

Ship's Log: November 24

Elizabeth wondered how long she had been unconscious. Monitoring the passage of time had never been one of her strengths (as evidenced by the number times she had arrived late to classes at the Academy and sometimes barely made it to her station in main engineering on time, often still fastening her uniform as she charged down the passageways). That was why one of the first things she programmed into her optical implant had been a chronometer with an alarm that would signal her when needed. With it removed, she had no real idea how much time had passed. It had been at least an hour, she guessed, but less than a day. If she could not manage free herself, she hoped that someone—probably the Chief—would come looking for her when she failed to report back in at the end of her shift.

Feeling had returned to nearly every part of her body. The tingling sensations had passed, replaced by a pressure and tension, muscles beginning to cramp from being held in the same position for too long. Worse yet, her nose continued to itch fiercely. Wriggling it brought little relief. She was grateful that no one could see her—she was certain that she looked ridiculous.

She tried again, without success, to manipulate her artificial arm. She received no feedback signals from it and it did not feel like it was operating, feeling no movement from it against her side. Something must be interfering with the interface, she thought. Probably from the drugs. It would be easy enough to reset—if she could reach it. She tried to shift her body again, but managed only the slightest movement. Whoever had bound her had done an expert job, she decided sourly, and settled back once again to think.

Her surroundings remained dark. She was laying horizontally on some kind of platform, but the space she was in felt small. Even though she could not see around her, something in how the sound carried when she breathed gave her that impression. There must be airflow from somewhere, she realized. The air had not gotten warm and stale, but she could feel anything against her skin that told her where the renewed air might come from. Must be coming from too far away for me to tell. She tried to turn her wrists. If I could just manage to get one of these straps loose . . . The strap refused to surrender to her efforts.

She sagged back, forcing herself to slow her breathing. The straps did not seem to cover her entire body. She only felt their presence at her certain key points, wrapped around her shoulders, wrists, ankles, calves, and thighs. The realization brought a renewed surge of anger. Trussed up like a roast pig . . . During a family vacation to Hawaii, at her mother’s insistence, they had participated in a traditional luau ceremony. Elizabeth was not happy about either the memory or the comparison. She took reassurance in that, to her knowledge, only Pyrafox still practiced such carnivorous rites, at least aboard ship. She was probably not destined to be someone’s meal.

The image, though, gave her an idea. The straps held very tightly, but she could perhaps use them to her advantage. Near her shoulder was a manual release mechanism for her cybernetic. She used it at night and when she needed to make repairs. If she could twist herself around just right, she might be able to use the pressure of the straps around her shoulder to engage it. With the arm free, it might give her that slight bit of movement she might need to work herself free.

Using her legs for leverage, she forced her shoulders against the surface of the platform. She felt the slight hitch as the mechanism caught for a moment on the platform before yielding. Rolling slightly, she attempted the movement again, this time shifting her body at a slightly different angle and with less force. She felt her motion cease as the raised switch on the mechanism stopped her movement. Using her legs to lever herself upward slightly, she relaxed, bringing her weight down against the switch. It seemed to hold for a moment, and then slid along the surface of the platform. Twisting slightly, she tried again, this time coming down much harder than she had expected, the movement jarring her teeth painfully.

Something felt as thought it gave in her shoulder, like a distant feeling of dislocation. She tried to move her arm, anticipating pain, but she felt none. Something seemed to roll against her. She smiled in the darkness, pleased with her success. The artificial arm, now detached from its mounting at her shoulder, rested loosely at her side. She worked her shoulder, feeling the strap slide upward and free. The pressure of the binding was gone from her opposite shoulder as well.

It took some effort, slowly working her natural arm up and down against her body, but the upper straps finally worked loose, giving her some leverage now to work on the ones binding her wrists. With the cybernetic limb moving freely, it took her little time to finish freeing her arms. She heard her artificial arm fall free, clanging loudly against the platform before falling silent. Using the echoes as a guide, she tried to note where it had fallen. Fumbling in the darkness, she managed to work the straps wrapped around her legs free.

Stretched her limbs, she felt a different kind of numbness and tingling recede. Wherever she was being held, she realized, it was large enough for her easily stretch out without touching the walls. She reached up, unable to find a ceiling as well. As far as she could tell, she was on a featureless platform in an empty chamber of some kind. Calling up a schematic in her mind, she tried to think where such a place might exist on the ship. Lowering herself into a crawling position, she moved slowly, sweeping her hand out in front of her in the darkness, feeling for the location of her missing arm.

She encountered a wall, but what her fingers told her about the seam between the floor and wall provided her with no additional clues as to her location. Turning, she moved in what she hoped was a spiral, trying a standard search pattern in pursuit of her cybernetic limb. She moved for what she was certain was several minutes in the darkness until her fingers brushed a smooth, rounded edge. Reaching out, she breathed a long sigh of relief as she retrieved the limb.

Using touch alone, she was certain that she could reattach it in the dark, but she hoped to make it operational again as well. Her fingers traced the braces and small servomotors, working their way along the assembly until they reached the connector interface. She found the reset controls and pressed them, whispering a silent prayer. Bright colored pinpoints of lights answered her. They did little to penetrate the darkness, but reassured her that she was not, in fact, blind. She had realized that she had still retained that fear.

With the limb now active, she reset it into the connection interface in her shoulder. She tried to move the wrist and bend her mechanical fingers; she was rewarded by both a series of feedback signals and definite movement of the hand.

Things are definitely looking up, she thought with a faint, unseen smile. Returning to her knees, she crawled off again, searching for the next wall of her mysterious prison.

#

Hawkes watched the main screen, casting occasional glances downward at his console to ensure the weapons and defensive systems remained ready. He saw the First divert his attention for a moment, responding a call over the intercom. From where he stood, Hawkes could not hear what being said at the other end of the channel.

“Does he say why?” Thompson asked with a hint of both puzzlement and irritation in his tone.

Hawkes saw a cloud pass over the First’s expression before he spoke again. “Bring him to the bridge.” The First closed the intercom channel and shot a quick look toward Fear, but said nothing to her before turning his attention back to the fore displays.

“Anything?” he asked. His posture resumed the stance of readiness and authority.

The red-furred navigator shook his head. “Nothing, sirrr,” he replied. “If they’rrre out therrre, they’rrre rrrunning on low powerrr.” He gestured toward one of the status displays on his console. “I’m picking up slightly higherrr than norrrmal backgrrround enerrrrgy, but nothing conclusive.” The alien navigator made a noise somewhere between a growl and a sigh. “We might just be picking up ourrrr own wake, sirrr.”

That was not a good sign, Hawkes. Ships of any size left a discernible energy field in their wake. Subject to the ubiquitous inverse-square law, the faster the ship traveled, the larger the wake it would leave behind. This made it extremely easy to track vessels traveling at high velocities. If the mystery fleet of ships had increased their speed to stay out of the Sapphire Night’s sensor range, they should have picked up some part of the residual energy wake by now. It seemed, Hawkes decided soberly, that they were in fact chasing sensor ghosts.

“Navigator,” Thompson said, his voice conveying the same uneasy disappointment that the Tactical Officer felt. “Give us a direct course back to our original position.”

“At once, sirrr,” the red-furred alien replied.

Hawkes looked toward Fear, waiting to see how she would react to this fruitless pursuit that she had not in the first place authorized. She turned toward the First, the only clue to her expression was the tight line of her thin, dark lips. If there had been anything she was about to say, it was interrupted by the sound of the Chief Engineer entering the bridge.

His escort stopped just inside the hatchway. Hawkes saw Thompson give the guard a single nod and he returned to the corridor. The Chief moved toward Fear, but stopped at the sound of the First’s voice.

“You have a report?”

Fear turned to face Thompson, her eyes flattening. Hawkes had witnessed that expression before. The result of what followed was usually unpleasant for the recipient. Thompson met her gaze evenly, waiting for a moment for the Chief Engineer to adjust his focus away from the Aerian medical officer.

“Well,” the Chief started out awkwardly, “it’s not so much a report as, well, some ideas.”

Thompson scowled and, for a moment, Hawkes thought he might lash out at the man. He managed, though, to somehow keep his annoyance in check.

“Ideas about what, Chief?”

The Chief glanced toward Fear before answering. She gave him a small nod. Thompson’s eyes narrowed slightly at the exchange.

“Fear asked me to take a look at the readings from the Captain’s slipstream jump.” He held up a portable tablet. “Someone like Lizz—Lieutenant Banks might make more out of it, but I did notice a few things.”

Ship's Log: November 23

As Fear turned to request the infirmary surveillance logs, she noticed a subtle shift in the ship internal fields. Most of the crew was completely unaware of them, but her Aerian awareness made her extremely sensitive to even the smallest changes in electromagnetic fields. They’ve changed course! she realized. Without orders.

With a deliberate motion, she activated the intercom. “Bridge,” she said, her voice even, but revealing a sharp edge. “Report.”

There was a long pause. Fear imagined whoever had ordered the change—most like the First—gathering their courage to respond.

“Bridge here,” the First’s voice came over the channel. “We’ve detected several objects that might be approaching ships,” he said. His tone sounded unusually calm. “We’ve altered course to investigate.”

“I see.” Her voice was cold. A thought stopped her. “Is it the Captain?”

“Unknown,” the First replied. “It might be a small fleet of no more than four or five ships,” he continued, “or more. Or it might not be ships at all.”

She changed the view on one of her displays to match that of the main screen on that bridge. It revealed nothing, even after the enhancements she requested.

“Coming there,” she said, rising from her desk. She closed the intercom channel without waiting for a response and headed toward the hatchway.

The hatch opened and a guard appeared in the doorway, blocking her way into the corridor. Her wide, dark eyes flared slightly.

“I am returning to the bridge.” She stated as it a fact rather than an order, but the guard remained in place. Fear’s hand moved down toward her waist.

His attention seemed to be elsewhere for a moment and then he looked down at her. “I will accompany you.” He stood aside and waited her to move into the passageway.

She stepped into the corridor and headed toward the bridge. Fighting back the urge to kill the guard, she kept her attention focused on the deserted corridors ahead. Although he was considerably larger than she was, Fear was certain that she could inject him with a fatal dose of a neurolytic toxin before he could react. It would serve little purpose, she realized, other than to ease her own displeasure.

The guard remained just out of her reach, as if sensing her unspoken intentions. She grudgingly admitted that they had been trained well. They reached the bridge and the guard stepped inside with her.

The First turned as she entered, but his expression was one of steady self-assurance, not half-hidden disdain and deference. He is now a threat, she thought. He would be far easier to deal with than the Captain had been, she knew. There were many among the crew who would be pleased to see this First removed.

“You have altered course,” she stated, moving to stand near the navigation and helm stations. She indifferently noted the faint tremors that passed through the body of the young woman at the helm as she approached.

“Yes,” the First said. He seemed unaffected by her dark stare. His eyes flickered for a moment, glancing toward the Tactical Officer, then back to her.

Without turning, Fear knew that the Tactical Officer was watching the exchange closely. That was not unusual, but this time she felt faintly unnerved by his attention on her. She pushed aside the sensation, directing her focus on the First.

“I gave no such orders,” she told him, keeping her gaze fixed on his.

“No,” he agreed with surprising composure. “I did.”

Fear felt reassured to see the faintest flicker of uncertainty in his dark blue eyes. She turned her attention to the main view screen. “Show me the scans.”

The First nodded toward the Navigator, who brought the results up on one of his status displays.

Fear studied the data in silence for several moments before announcing, “Inconclusive.”

The First nodded slowly in agreement. “That’s what we thought,” he said, and then explained the reasoning behind their approach vector.

She could find no flaw in his logic. It made sound tactical sense to approach the enemy rather than wait for the enemy to approach the Sapphire Night on their terms. Still, he had done so without consulting her. It was a definite change in the command structure since the event of the mutiny that would bear careful observation.

Turning slightly, she looked over at the Tactical Officer. His scarred visage betrayed nothing of his thoughts. He appeared as he always was: ready, capable, and cunning.

“I will remain here,” she announced.

The First regarded her for a moment before nodding to her security escort. The guard saluted the First and then left the bridge. The First moved back toward his station, leaving Fear standing alone behind the young ensign at the helm.

#

Thompson walked with slow, deliberate steps back to his station. He fought the urge to look back at the Aerian. In his mind, he could see her standing there at the helm, probably staring at him with those deep black eyes of hers. Of everything else about her, those seemed to be the most alien. Nothing in his research had told him that she could see any differently than he could, although possibly in a slightly broader spectrum and with greater night vision. Yet, he still often wondered if that might not be another of those well-kept Aerian secrets.

Working the controls on his console, he brought up a display of their current course. Within the next few minutes, he estimated, they should see the evasive objects at the limits of their sensors again. In all likelihood, they would still not be able to tell whether they were ships or not, but they might learn whether there really was something out there. It was not unusual, he knew, for the sensor to see ghost objects at the limits of their range. Even the best-maintained and finely-tuned sensors suffered from it from time to time. He could order a diagnostic sweep of the sensor systems, but he did not dare take them offline for even a few moments right now. If—no, he told himself, when—Devereux did return, they would need every second of warning to prepare for her attack. He was willing to suffer this minor inconvenience for that margin of security.

Hawkes was right, he knew. Devereux would return to reclaim her ship. If she did, and was successful, he held few illusions that he would survive. If she did not succeed—or never returned—then he would have to deal with the Aerian. There was no doubt of her skills and usefulness, but needed her loyalty. Although she had been the architect of the mutiny, the ship was his, not hers, to command. Even if she accepted that, how long would it be, he wondered, before she decided to turn against him as well?

“Anything yet?” he asked.

“Nothing yet, sirrr,” Pyrafox replied. “We’rrre still at the farrr limits of ourrr sensorrr rrrange.”

Thompson fought down the urge to pace the deck. He had seen Devereux do it on occasions of elevated tension, prowling the inside perimeter of the command deck like a caged animal. It had always made him nervous, as if she might suddenly attack without warning, discharging the frustrations she could not release on her enemies against her crew.

He risked a glance at Fear. She had moved away from the helm station, much to the relief of the young ensign there. She stood near the raised platform of the command deck, but not near any of the ramps, facing the main view screen, but her presence seemed to be entirely elsewhere. She really has no place on the bridge, Thompson thought with some rancor. Her station is the infirmary. For a moment, he considered having her escorted back, but then relented. If it was Devereux out there, it might be useful to have the Aerian where she could be seen.

“Still nothing, sirrr,” the navigator reported. Next to him, the helmsman’s hands danced over her console, guiding the ship along its ordered course.

Thompson stared at the main screen as if willing the mysterious vessels into appearance. Where they chasing ghosts? he wondered.

“Maintain course,” he said with what he hoped was an air of confident authority.

“Yes, sir,” came the response from the ensign at the helm. Her hands remained steady on the controls.

The bridge was silent except for background noises. There was an air of both growing tension and expectancy.

“Sirrr,” Pyrafox said, even his voice seemed hushed. “We arrre apprrroaching the point wherrre the objects firrrst appearrred on sensorrrs.”

Thompson looked over toward Hawkes. The Tactical Officer stood ready, but his expression gave the First no indication of what he might be thinking. He felt Fear’s eyes on him as well, but refused to turn and acknowledge her unseen gaze. He turned back to the main view screen and considered his options.

His strategy might have failed and, if there were in fact ships out there, they had continued to move out of range as the Sapphire Night had approached. They might also only be chasing scanner artifacts. If there are ships out there, what were they waiting for?

“Helm,” he said suddenly. “Increase speed to half standard. Alter course to a straight heading.”

“Yes, sir,” the ensign replied and immediately began making the necessary adjustments.

“Enough sneaking around,” Thompson remarked quietly, but loud enough that he was knew that Hawkes had probably overheard him. Let’s see if someone really is out there.

Ship's Log: November 22

Rusty looked at the one of the screens mounted on his console, comparing the image to the one displayed on the tablet in his hand. They appeared to be roughly the same, differing in what was considered to be minor and supposedly unimportant ways. His specialty really came at the end of producing slipstream fields—the technology that allowed their ships to penetrate the barriers of normal space. He monitored the readings they generated to ensure that they fell within known and expected ranges, but not since his early training had he really focused on the theoretical science behind it.

On one of the other displays, he had brought up one of the standard references on the subject, refreshing his memory on what each of the readings meant. Many of them made sense—mass displacement, residual energy, gravitational fluctuations—all of these had some basis in standard, traditional physics. There were dozens of different measurements and, even since the time when slipstream drives had gone into widespread, many of them were still the subject of much discussion and speculation in scientific circles. Most of the articles, Rusty noted, were heated disagreements with hypotheses and explanations that other theoreticians had published.

He concerned himself chiefly with two of the readings. Although both were within widely reported ranges, his intuition told him to focus his attention there—and he always tried to obey those feelings. Naturally, he mused sourly, they were two of the least understood and hotly debated measurements. Trying to sort through the mathematical proofs in support of some of the possible theories, Rusty felt that they might as well have been magic for all the sense he could make of the explanations.

Lizzie might be able to make something of this, he thought. He looked at the chronometer and frowned. She was probably still making repairs on Deck Four, he noted. More than likely, the work would last through her entire shift and well into the next one. He was hesitant in pulling her off that duty for this, even if Fear had asked for a report quickly. He then recognized that the two-hour deadline had long since passed and Fear had not yet asked him for his analysis. That realization added to his general sense of uneasiness. Promptness was one of the cornerstones of Fear’s behavior. Yet, she had not contacted him. There had been no additional alerts, so he wondered what might be going on.

For a moment, Rusty smiled, seeing in his mind the scene of Thompson being coldly berated by Fear for ordering the lockdown without consulting her first. His expression changed as he heard the distinctive sound of the main thrusters being engaged. The ship was moving, moving on a new course. That explains that, he concluded with a faint chuckle. She’s found something else to occupy her attention. He paused, a knot forming in his stomach. Had they found the Captain? Or had she found them? Either way, it meant that a confrontation was coming. Haven’t enough people died today? he sighed.

Rusty walked through main engineering to the area that monitored the drive systems. “How are we doing, O’Connor?” he asked the crewman at the station there.

The crewman turned and smiled at Rusty. “Everything looks good, Chief.” He nodded toward the status displays for confirmation.

Rusty surveyed the bank of screens quickly, noting with relief that everything seemed, in fact, to be operating as expected. He continued his tour of the deck, checking the readiness and status of the other systems. They all seemed to be functioning normally. The reports did little to ease the vague sense of disquiet that troubled him.

His mind running through a list of the ship’s systems, and their possible points of failure, he returned to his office. As far as he could determine, everything had been checked and re-checked. The reports for the complete sweeps he had ordered for Decks Two and Four should be complete at any moment, he realized, but he expected them to show nothing unusual as well.

Trying of redirect his thoughts to other matters, sat down at his console and began to study the slipstream results again. He concentrated on the two sets of readings that his intuition told him held the answers. For one of them, he found that the research generally agreed that it seemed to be influenced by the mass and velocity of the vessel. The prevailing theories hypothesized that it indicated the conservation or conversion of velocity as an object entered and exited the slipstream. Conjecture over the other reading ranged from the mundane to the ridiculous. At least one scientist claimed it was a measurement of sub-atomic activity triggered by a slipstream jump. A few other theories suggested that, while it was unclear what the readings meant, that it was an indicator of how time was measured in slipstream.

The latter made a certain amount of sense to Rusty. Transit time in slipstream, rarely more than a few minutes, was highly disproportionate to the distance traveled. Traditional physics said, then, that time must be compressed somehow for objects traveling via slipstream in order for them to travel those distances within understood laws. The readings Rusty saw on the display were within the ranges recorded by dozens of vessels over hundreds of slipstream transits. An idea occurred to him and requested a different subset of data.

Reading over the records taken from all of the shuttle’s jumps, he noticed that the last set of readings for the two intriguing items were well out of the recorded range. What did that mean, though? he wondered. He went back to the original data and looked at all of the readings that had been at each end of the ranges. His mind noticed the pattern before he consciously saw it. Of all of the ships with measurements near the limits of the ranges, more than eighty percent of them had never returned from slipstream. He noticed that the actual number of ships was small—seven in all that had never been accounted for—the data was remarkably consistent. Was the Captain dead? He now wondered. Or trapped in slipstream for eternity? He tried to imagine what that might be like, or whether the person would even realize what was happening. Or would the ship continue on, lost in a slipstream wake, until it was eventually destroyed by time?

He looked up from the display, his mind filled with the possibilities of what he had discovered. Glancing at the chronometer, he was surprised at how much time had passed. His shift would be ending soon. Although she had not yet called for it, he knew that Fear would want this information. He copied his results to the tablet and headed for the hatchway. He had no answers for her—only more questions.

#

Author's Note: This section appears ouf sequence. It is included at this point because this is what the muse wanted to work on today.

Devereux heard the vehicle approach long before she could see it clearly. It made sounds similar to that of a badly tuned shuttle thruster, but also exhibited an incongruous roar of raw power. It was moving quickly, for a crude land vehicle—a bright yellow speck against the brightening horizon. She waited, watching it as it came nearer. Her hand rested near the weapon at her waist. She knew that someone of this era should pose little threat to her, but it was always better to be prepared. She thought of picking up the scanner to see how many people were in the incoming vehicle, but presumed that she would find out soon enough.

The vehicle decelerated as it approached her, it occupants evidently curious to see who might be wandering along the roadway. It came to a stop about four meters ahead of her, pulling to the edge of the road, producing a low cloud of tan-colored dust. Its pilot kept the vehicle’s engines running. A wise precaution, Devereux thought with a thin smile. I’d do the same thing. She started walking toward the yellow vehicle.

When she was less than a meter away, one of the darkened windows on the left side of the vehicle lowered, revealing the face of a man slightly younger then herself. He had tanned skin, dark hair, and a bright smile that spoke of cosmetic dental work. In shadow of the interior, Devereux could see another man in a seat next to him. She could not make him out as clearly, other than for a similar smile and brightness to his blue-green eyes that triggered caution in her.

“Car break down?” the first man said.

It took a moment for Devereux to analyze what he said. She nodded, her lips forming a smile on moistened lips.

The man leaned his head out and looked north down the road. “I didn’t see one as we came down.”

“I’ve been walking awhile,” Devereux said, hoping that would end that part of the conversation.

The man nodded and withdrew back into the interior of the vehicle. He glanced over at his companion. Devereux thought she saw a predatory smile dance across the man’s expression, but could not be certain within the shadows the vehicle. He said something in quiet tones to his passenger that she could not make out. The other man’s smile grew slightly as he nodded with agreement at whatever the pilot had said.

“We can give you a lift,” he told Devereux. He tried to keep his tone casual, but she read a faint suggestion of menacing intent in it. She tried not to smile, her hand now resting firmly on her weapon. She would take the vehicle by force, if needed, she decided, but she was not certain that she could pilot it effectively.

“We were heading to Flagstaff,” he continued. “But we can drop you off in Winslow, if you want.”

She realized that he was studying her, but doing a poor job of hiding it. His eyes, she noticed, kept returning to the slit of her open tunic. She started to smile, releasing her grip on her weapon. This she understood. Some things, she thought with silent bemusement, don’t change with centuries.

“That’d be fine,” she said, smiling brightly at him. He responded as he expected, the eyes of both him and his companion brightening. “Let me get my things?” she asked softly, nodding toward the cluster of rocks where her equipment lay.

The pilot grinned at her. “Sure thing.”

She turned and walked back toward the boulders, sensing their eyes on her every moment. As she walked, she exaggerated each movement slightly, just enough to be enticing without being obvious. She gathered her things and turned around, the expressions of the men telling her that the tactic had been successful. They were distracted by other thoughts now, unlikely to pursue more complicated lines of inquiry.

The pilot turned to the other man as she reached the open window of the vehicle again. “In the back,” he told his companion. “Let the lady sit there.”

An expression of annoyance played over his passenger’s face, and then faded quickly as some idea occurred to him. With deliberate movements, he opened the hatch on his side and waited her to enter.

“You can put that stuff in the trunk,” the pilot told her, gesturing toward her jacket and other items.

She smiled softly at him. “I’d rather keep them with me.”

The pilot smiled back, giving her a small shrug. “Whatever you want.”

She settled herself into the seat, noting the well-maintained black interior of the vehicle. The seat was surprising comfortable. The other man squeezed himself through the narrow space between her seat and the hatchway, into the space behind her. He reached over her shoulder and pulled the hatch closed, and then dropped into the long seat with a vague noise.

The pilot was smiling at her. She gave him one of her own, but still seeing something did not trust in his expression. “Ready?” he asked her.

Her let her smile grow and nodded, settling back against the seat.

“Seatbelt,” he said, still smiling, his eyes darting toward the hatch on her side.

Devereux tried to hide her confusion by turning in that direction. She saw the glint of silver partway up the bulkhead and reached for it. It vaguely resembled the safety harnesses used in shuttles. She reached for it, trying to pull it toward her. She met slight resistance and then it came toward her, bringing with it a narrow length of strap whose color matched the interior of vehicle. She pulled it across her chest, as that seemed to where it wanted to go, noticing that it also brought a similar strap across her waist. Looking down to her left, she located a small mechanism that seemed like it was it designed to accept the silver part. Inserting it, she heard a reassuring click as the device was engaged.

She looked back at the pilot, giving him her best smart schoolgirl smile. He grinned back at her and then adjusted several of the controls and levers in front of him. He reached over toward her. For a moment, she thought he might try to touch her leg, but his hand stopped on a short lever mounted in the narrow console between their seats. He moved it slightly in her direction and then toward the front of the vehicle. The sound of the vehicle’s engine changed and it began to move forward.

The pilot turned and smiled at her again and then shifted the position of his right leg. The vehicle gained velocity and returned to the surface of the roadway. The noise produced by the drive system seemed unnecessarily loud in the interior of the vehicle. It was bearable, Devereux decided, but it would make conversation difficult—which might not be entirely a bad thing. She glanced quickly over at the man next to her, who seemed intent on piloting the vehicle for the moment. Looking forward, she caught sight a small, rectangular mirror that showed their passage and a glimpse into the space behind them. She saw the eyes of the man back there studying her. There was still something in his expression that disturbed her. His eyes turned away and he stared out his window, his thoughts apparently turning elsewhere.

Devereux looked through the window at the road in front of them. Based on their velocity, it was still be some time before they reached the settlement. She wondered whether she should continue with these men to the place called Flagstaff, whether it was any nearer to her desired destination. She was tempted to pull out the scanner to check, but knew that it might raise too many questions. Caution was probably the best strategy for now, she decided, until she had a better grasp of the situation.

Her thoughts moved away from the road ahead. She needed allies here, she knew. Her eyes moved just enough to quickly survey the two occupants of the vehicle, trying to determine whether they might be useful. For now, she decided, they’ve provided me with much-needed transportation. We’ll see what happens when we get to this Flagstaff.