Ship's Log: February 28

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

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

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

#

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

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

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

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

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

Ship's Log: February 27

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Infirmary. Engineering respond."

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

Again, she heard nothing.

Ship's Log: February 26

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ship's Log: February 25

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

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

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

Ship's Log: February 22

Well, that's definitely progress.

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

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

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

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

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

Ship's Log: February 21

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

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

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

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

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

Ship's Log: February 20

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

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

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

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

Ship's Log: February 4

Seeing a tablet in the hand of one of the technicians reminded him of the one he had left on the bridge. With the recent rush of activity in finding Elizabeth, he had forgotten that they were facing yet another mystery. The Captain was still out there . . . somewhere. Or was she? he wondered. Had she managed to get herself back on board somehow? Another thought struck him. Or had she ever really left?

He knew, from experience, that Devereux was more than capable of murder when it suited her. Only the first one came close to matching her usual style. Certainly, she might leave more of a mess if she was in a rush, but something told Rusty that was not the case here. Could it be the Captain along with one or more allies? It was difficult to know.

Returning to his office, he brought up the report again on the readings from the Captain's shuttle. He downloaded them to a new tablet, intending to study them later. It was beginning to feel more and more like an academic exercise. The Captain would return—or not—one way or the other, regardless of whether they determined how she had managed her escape. At best, they might be able to prevent her from using the same method again. There was also the possibility that they might even be able to use it to their advantage.

The data copied to the tablet, Rusty turned it off and looked up at the chronometer display. He was intrigued by the challenge of deciphering the mystery. What use they might make of it, he did not know yet. The Captain had found it useful enough, he considered with wry amusement. She must have discovered it somehow . . . The system access logs would have a record of what data she had accessed, so they might be able to piece together what research she had done. It might lead nowhere, but it was worth looking into.

He did not have the security clearance required to access those logs, so he would have to talk to Hawkes to get it. While he did not exactly dislike the man, he was not overly fond of the old officer either. Rusty understood the need to keep a distance from those around you, but he thought the Tactical Officer carried it to an unnecessary extreme. Rusty considered that he was glad he had not had to face the man in a poker game. While he could imagine Hawkes playing poker—his normally impassive visage a natural advantage—Rusty had never seen or heard of him sitting in on a game. Probably good, Rusty thought. He tried to imagine the older man losing a hand he should have won . . .

Rusty reached for the intercom and then stopped, watching as his hand began to shake. He closed his eyes, forming his fingers into a tight fist, and willing the tremors to cease. It took an incredible effort to make his fingers obey him. Even with his hand clenched tightly, he could feel the spasms of the muscles down to his wrist. It would spread from there soon, he knew. Had last night's ampoule really been the last one? He had lost count and, unwilling to confront his own guilt, had not checked again.

With deliberate care, he placed the tablet back on the desk. His shift was over. For the moment, he had something more critical and immediate to deal with.

Ship's Log: January 29

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ship's Log: January 18

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ship's Log: January 9

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ship's Log: January 8

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

#

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

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

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

Ship's Log: January 7

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

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

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

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

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

Ship's Log: December 20

Devereux considered what to do with the two bodies. It would be easy enough to blast them to ash, but she was reluctant to waste that much of her weapon's limited charge just for that. Looking around her dusty surroundings, she noted that other than for the road there was nothing else here. There must have been some reason to have this road constructed off the highway. Although, based on the limited number of vehicles that they have even encountered on the main road, she could not imagine what it was.

Studying several clumps of boulders and shrubbery a few meters away, she thought about dumping the bodies there. They would probably be discovered at some point, but not easily seen from either of the roads. Eventually, she figured someone might actually realize the two were missing when they failed to arrive wherever they were going—Flagstaff, they had said. Her eyes turned back to the dead men and then to the distant bushes. The distance between the two was not that far, until the realization struck that she would have to be the one to drag the bodies from the vehicle to the rocks. For a moment, she reconsidered her decision not the vaporize them, but sighed and headed back to the vehicle.

She pulled the pilot out first, letting his body drop onto the dirt like loose cargo. Waiting for the dust to settle, she studied his body, noting that he was actually reasonably fit, but had that build of someone who developed muscles for effect rather than from actual usage. It explained his lack of technique and general clumsiness. Before trying to move him again, she searched his clothing for weapons or anything else that might be useful.

After going through his pockets, she had gathered a small collection of items. One was a dark, soft and folded container. Inside it was a set of small brightly-colored plastic rectangles with raised numbers and letters. Inside the long pouch were several long slips of paper-like material printed with numbers and crude images of what appeared to be ancient leaders. Their currency? she wondered. She looked at the plastic cards again, reading their labels more carefully, remembering that this era had possessed the beginnings of virtual commerce. She sat all of these aside with the other objects she had found. Standing, she grabbed his feet and began dragging him through the dirt to the waiting rocks and shrubs.

She repeated the same process with the passenger, finding a similar collection of objects hidden in his pockets. She found nothing that gave her any additional clues as to the purpose of many of the items. Walking back to vehicle after depositing the second man's body, she drew her boots sideways across her path, trying to somewhat obscure her tracks. Not that it mattered, she thought. Even if their bodies are found, it was very unlikely that anyone could track her down.

Returning to the vehicle, she climbed inside, situating herself into the pilot's seat. The instrument panel was both simplistic and confusing. The position of the various status displays seemed almost random. There were several for which she could not readily determine their purpose. Maybe once the power is brought online . . . she considered, looking for something that might resemble a likely looking power control. Her knees knocked against something dangling from the round steering control, making a faint ringing sound. Leaning forward, she studied the small number of oddly-shaped metal slivers of metal handing from a thin ring. One of them was inserted into a slot in the cylinder that jutted from the front of the vehicle, holding the steering control in place. Tiny letters were engraved around the outer rim of the recess where the filled slot was. They did not seem to form recognizable words. Devereux frowned and looked back at the front panel.

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.