Making a Game of Guilt

- Ready Player One -

I let him die.

I left him to perish in a wash of his own filth. I knew it would happen. And I let it happen anyway. Because, you know, business.

It’s no secret that most gamers are obsessive types. It’s what tends to bond them together—and also what keeps good people from playing good games. Once the hardcore gamers settle in, it stops being fun for everyone else.

He was one of those. I knew it the first time I met him. He had that look—the ways that his eyes shifted, the unconscious motions of his hands, as if they were lost without a game controller or keyboard to occupy them. When I saw him, I knew we had to have him.

On that day, when he signed the contract, I had set him up to die.

There’s something you need to know.

Those who work in and for the gaming industry do it out of love. It’s about the only place outside of the movie industry where you can get paid to create that kind of immersive experience. The pay is low and the hours are long, but it’s worth it to almost everyone who participates in it to be able to claim that they had a part in creating “that thing”—particularly if it somehow manages to hit blockbuster status or at least wide public awareness. There’s also a strange sense of community, of both being in as part of the secret while the game is in development, and then later when people start playing it.

Sure, I’ve heard authors and publishers say that same thing about their field, but let’s face it, most people want to see stuff on the screen rather than just in their heads.

The thing is: the more immersive it is, the better it is. But it’s also addictive. It’s become to cliché to acknowledge that relationships and jobs are lost by gamers so caught up in “leveling up just one more time”, that it’s almost barely noticed in the news any more—unless the game or gamer involved is newsworthy for some other reason.

He wasn’t. He wasn’t even really an employee of the company. Sure, we compensated him, chiefly in promotional items such as posters and t-shirts. We’d probably contributed to a majority of what passed for his wardrobe over time—which probably also contributed to no one realizing that he was dead for so long. He’d had no need to do any laundry for weeks.

When the news broke, most of the people here shrugged. He had been a name without a face to most of them. Now, he was an account to deactivate and a resource to replace. Other than myself, I think only Sara in Legal expressed any kind of real concern or remorse. And her interest was wholly professional, of course. He had hardly been the kind of guy who would have interested her. For one, he would have hardly fit into her refined and polished Ivy League graduate crowd. And, second, he wasn’t a she. She preferred women. I’d learned that one the hard way.

Once assured that his contracts had all been properly signed and executed, even Sara forgot about him, other than as something she could bill the company for.

I had never met him in person. I had chatted with him two, maybe three, times over video. He hadn’t attended either of the conventions that we’d offered to comp him for. I got the idea that he didn’t get out much—by his own choice. I wondered if he even had his groceries delivered.

And now he was dead.

There were murmurs among the development team about listing his name in credits as some of memoriam. I think Sara squelched that one, though. The company was concerned, she said, about calling any kind of attention to the incident.

“Concerned” and “incident”. Those sounded like such nice subtle abstractions, allowing them to avoid admitting that a person had died while working for them. Those are not words that I would have chosen. But then, no one wanted to hear my words on the matter.

- Ready Player Two -

Jameson had smelled worse. It was not the first time he had responded to a Well Person Check, only to find that the person they had been sent to check on had been far from well. Usually, though, they tended to either be elderly folks who had suffered some kind of medical emergency and been unable to call for help, or drug addicts who had OD’d. The mess and the odors were pretty much the same. The main difference was that the old people usually had neat houses.

It seemed to be a thing for them, Jameson decided, remembering how tidy and organized his grandmother had kept her house, even during her final months. It made investigations easier, he knew, rather than sorting through the piles of assorted garbage and filth that usually accompanied an overdose.

This one, though, was new to him.

The guy was young, but his strongest drug of choice seemed to have been those thin cans of Red Bull. What had killed him . . . Jameson could only guess. He suspected that the guy’s diet—based on the assorted bags of Cheetohs and corn chips he found scattered around—had probably contributed to it. Even with the aroma of death, Jameson suspected that the guy had not showered for a few days either.

The television set remained on, stuck on a scene from some video game that Jameson didn’t recognize. He wasn’t much of a player, so hadn’t kept up on the latest releases—short of commercials on the web or at the movies. He had played some in college, but had not been particularly good at it.

Loser.

He didn’t say it out loud, but it was the word that came to mind when he eyed the sagging bulk of the guy in the loveseat. He wondered whether the landlord would try to clean it or toss it out before offering the place for rent again. At the prices that even the cheapest places commanded these days in this area, he wouldn’t have been surprised if the landlord had already posted the place as “Available”. Dead people don’t pay rent—and it could take forever to try to collect it from someone’s estate.

Jameson moved back through the small apartment, following the trail left by the crime scene team. They had found nothing remarkable or noteworthy; he hadn’t expected them to. They stood outside the front door of the apartment now, comparing notes. Jameson couldn’t blame them—the air inside the place was foul.

He peeked once more into the small room in the back that served as a bedroom. Jameson had seen larger closets. He wasn’t sure that it hadn’t once been one. With the real estate prices being what they were, and rents being what the market could bear—and it could apparently bear quite a lot—people were converting whatever spaces they could into leasable units. The inspectors couldn’t keep up with them all.

Emerald Flight: “Human Factors” (continued)

Hope waited until the First Officer and Chief Engineer left the Infirmary. When she heard the main hatch close, she tapped out the code on the console in front of her to open the inner hatch to the isolation pod. She entered the chamber and, closing the hatch behind her. Waiting until she heard both the containment seal and lock engage, she moved toward the Tactical Officer.

She checked the displays on the monitoring systems. As she had expected, they displayed the same data as the ones within the outer chamber, but she wanted to be certain. She looked now at the screen that displayed the transmitter’s results. A list of frequencies scrolled down the display, but each of them had failed to receive any kind of response from the implant embedded deep within the Tactical Officer’s mind. Hope wondered if they would achieve any results at all and, if not, what they might attempt next.

Studying the medication feed, she considered whether she should reduce the amount of sedative. She did not know whether it might make any difference, good or bad, in the length of time that the Tactical Officer might have left of existence. She reduced the dosage slightly and studied the results.

The displays showed a very slight increase in brain activity, but no change in his other readings. She reached out and touched his forehead lightly, wondering whether she should intervene. The Essence of many beings, which Humans called its “spirit”, often lost their way as the body healed enough to continue to sustain it. She did not believe that this could be so for the Tactical Officer, for the will that bound his Essence to his body was very strong.

There.

She sensed his Essence still within him, as she knew it would be. It was indeed weakening, but there was something unusual in its patterns. It was the Tactical Officer . . . and yet it was not. Its voice felt . . . primitive. The core of intelligence that she knew represented the Tactical Officer’s Essence seemed masked, hidden for persistent waves of . . . what?

Hope disengaged herself from the Tactical Officer, taking a moment to reorient herself back into the physical world. The transition was sometimes difficult, even more so when she had been in contact with an alien Essence.

She looked down at the Tactical Officer. He remained still. Checking the readings again, she saw little change. The small increase in brain activity continued, but she could not tell yet whether it would aid the Tactical Officer’s survival.

“Hope?”

Lieutenant Ramsey’s voice sounded over the chamber’s intercom. Hope turned before answering, seeing that the outer chamber was empty, that her attempt to contact the Tactical Officer’s Essence had not been directly witnessed. She had no concerns over the video feed, for she knew that her body had shielded her actions. Had anyone been watching, they would have assumed that she was checking closely on the condition of her patient.

“Yes.”

“I need help with Lieutenant Owens,” Lieutenant Ramsey said. “I think he might have hurt himself.”

Hope looked at the Tactical Officer and then at the monitors that reported on his condition. They remained unchanged. She entered the code to unlock the hatch, her thoughts shifting to Engineer Owens.

Lieutenant Ramsey’s words troubled her. “Hurt himself” held many meanings in the Human’s core language. One of which signified a deliberate intent to inflict harm on oneself, often as an attempt to end one’s existence. Alarm grew in Hope.

Contagion?

Had she missed something? she wondered. Was it possible that the Tactical Officer’s atypical behavior might have a biological cause, such a virus or other pathogen? None of the tests she had conducted—and they had been thorough and complete—had revealed any such cause for his condition. She knew, of course, that the tests could only detect what they were designed to detect, but they could do little to reveal unknown factors.

She thought of all of the Crew who had been in contact with the Tactical Officer during the past several hours. If an infectious agent was involved, nearly of the members of the command crew might have been affected, as well as the Engineers and Security Officers present in Cargo Bay One. In addition, they had all been to the bridge, and now the First Officer and Chief Engineer were in the Galley. The chance of containing the pathogen now was small. It would require placing the entire vessel under a total Quarantine lockdown.

Entering the recovery bay, Hope saw Lieutenant Ramsey assisting Engineer Owens in adjusting his position on the bed. His mouth grimaced, conveying his severe discomfort.

Lieutenant Ramsey took a deep breath and turned to face Hope. “He thought he’d try to use the bathroom himself without any help.”

She shot Engineer Owens a sharp look. His cheeks reddened and he looked away, taking a sudden interest in the proper placement of his blanket.

“He went down like a ton of bricks,” Lieutenant Ramsey went on. “I think he might have torn something in left leg—or at least strained it.”

“Engineer.”

Hope stared at Engineer Owens. He looked back at her and swallowed hard. He did not appear defiant or irrationally violent, as the Tactical Officer had been.

“Okay,” Engineer Owens said, his eyes turning downward, but he still faced Hope. “It was a stupid thing to do. I just wanted . . .” He waved his hand in a vague gesture toward the personal waste facility.

Exchanging a look with Lieutenant Ramsey, who expressed no sympathy, he then grunted, shifting his left leg stiffly on the bed.

“Can you at least take a look at it?” His tone was almost pleading.

Hope assessed that Engineer Owens remained sane, if somewhat foolish. From her perspective, this was a general state for most Humans. As it also seemed to discredit her alarming hypothesis of an infectious pathogen, she felt relieved.

She approached the diagnostic bed. Lieutenant Ramsey handed her a portable medical scanner as Hope joined her. Hope saw that it had been configured, but not yet used. She held it out to Lieutenant Ramsey.

“Continue.”

Lieutenant Ramsey looked at her in surprise, first at Hope’s face and then down at the medical scanner.

Oh,” she said quietly, and then, more firmly, “Okay.”

She took the scanner from Hope and positioned it over Engineer Owen’s left thigh. The scanner hummed softly for several seconds and then Lieutenant Ramsey lifted it and examined the data that it displayed.

“Mmm hmm,” she said, making those odd, non-content sounds that Humans often made. “Just a strain.” She handed the scanner back to Hope.

Hope read the data and then looked at Lieutenant Ramsey.

“I concur.”

A long moment of silence passed before Engineer Owens spoke.

“So you both agree,” he said, his mouth tightening in a grimace. “Are one of you going to give something for it?”

Lieutenant Ramsey looked overly thoughtful. “What do you think, Hope?”

Hope looked at Lieutenant Ramsey, trying to discern a deeper meaning to the question. The answer seemed to be quite evident.

When she could arrive at no other logical answer, Hope spoke.

“Yes.”

Lieutenant Ramsey turned toward Engineer Owens. “Doctor’s orders,” she said. “It’s your lucky day.”

Engineer Owens’ expression did not appear to reflect Lieutenant Ramsey’s assessment. Hope sensed that there were nuances to the conversation that she was missing, but decided that they were of little importance in terms of providing Engineer Owens treatment. She might ask Lieutenant Ramsey later for clarification, but only if she determined that it was truly important to do so. Hope turned and headed over to prepare the injection.

Behind her, Engineer Owens whispered, “You’re even colder than she is.”

Hope sensed Lieutenant Ramsey’s grin.

“I’ve had a good teacher.”

#

He sensed a presence. It was more than just a shape or a voice. He was no longer alone in this strange void. He could not see it, nor could he hear its movements. But he knew it was there. He tried to speak, but he had no voice.

It touched him.

No . . . not him. Not his thoughts. His mind.

He thought that he could almost hear it.

It comforted him. Or that was how it seemed to him. Its presence soothed him, even before he wondered whether he should fear it.

It felt . . . familiar, somehow. It had not one of those who had intruded into his cave, who had managed to defeat and capture him. Yet, it felt a part of those who had.

He felt comforted to know that he was no longer alone, that the eternity in which he now found himself might not be one of total solitude.

The presence began to withdraw. It was a gradual thing, the connection growing thinner and thinner, like smoke from a dying fire, until it could no longer be felt.

The featureless white universe is which he now existed seemed suddenly smaller. He still could neither see nor feel its boundaries, but he sensed that it was no longer limitless.

He continued to drift, although there was still no sensation of motion.

And waited.

And tried to understand.

Emerald Flight: “Human Factors” (continued)

“Didn’t want to miss all the excitement, eh, Cap’n?”

Devereux’s eyed turned toward the Chief. Her expression was solemn and almost haggard. Elizabeth felt a renewed chill wash through her abdomen.

She looks terrible.

Devereux did not speak immediately. Her eyes moved from the Chief to Elizabeth.

“Bad news, huh?” the Chief said, putting the tool that he was holding down before turning around. “Like things have been going so well anyway.”

Devereux’s eyes moved back to the Chief and then over to Xi.

“If you will excuse us, Ensign,” she said quietly, but with polite authority. “Return to your station.”

“Yes, Captain,” the engineer replied, saluting quickly and moving just as quickly out of the hatchway.

Devereux reached over and sealed the hatch.

“What is it, Captain?”

The grim look in Devereux’s expression deepened. “Hawkes has taken a turn for the worse,” she told them. “Hope gives him about thirty hours.”

Elizabeth exchanged a look with Rusty. The Chief’s expression flowed from surprise to determination.

“Well,” he announced, attempting to sound less solemn. “We can’t have that.”

“Does Hope know why?”

Devereux shook her head at Elizabeth’s question. “She’s still trying to find out.” She moved slowly over to the work surface that held the transmitter module. “This may be all that stands between him and death.” She slowly ran her fingertips along the surface of its casing. “But we just don’t know.”

“Do you want us to continue working on it?”

Elizabeth silenced Rusty with a sharp look when he opened his mouth to protest.

“Unless you have a better idea,” Devereux said. “Yes.” She turned back toward them. Elizabeth saw that her left hand was gripped into a fist. “If nothing else, maybe we can find out who did this to him.”

#

Rusty stared at the Captain.

Well, he thought. That puts a different spin on things.

“Nothing motivates like a good deadline . . .” he murmured, earning him sharp and mildly dismayed looks from both Elizabeth and the Captain.

“How soon can you be ready?” Devereux asked.

Rusty glanced at Elizabeth, reviewing how much had already been completed, and then turned back toward Devereux.

“Twenty minutes,” he said. “Give or take. If we can have Xi back. Forty, if we can’t.”

Devereux nodded. Elizabeth quickly tapped out the request for Xi to return to the work room. Rusty wondered how far he had gotten, or whether he lingered around, hoping to find out what the secrecy was all about.

No, Rusty decided. If the Captain told him to “Scat!”, he scat.

“Keep me posted,” Devereux told them, turning to leave.

“Captain?” Elizabeth said, causing her to pause at the hatchway.

“Yes?” Devereux half-turned to face her.

“I’m sorry.”

The Captain gave her a tight, wan smile. “Let’s hope we won’t have to be,” she said. “Carry on.”

They both waited until the Captain had left and was likely out of earshot. Rusty had learned, long ago, not to underestimate Devereux’s hearing. Although sometimes, he thought, it was as much intuition as listening skills.

“What do we tell Xi?” Elizabeth said.

“The same thing we did before,” Rusty answered without humor. “Nothing,” he said. “Absolutely nothing.”

Xi returned less than ten minutes, breathing as though he had sprinted all the way back from wherever he had gone. If he was hoping to be brought into the details of whatever secret project the ship’s senior officers were up to, he hid his disappointment poorly. This elicited a small shared smile between Rusty and Elizabeth, but it helped to boost both their spirits.

They completed the work in twenty-one minutes, losing time because Xi kept dropping tools in his nervousness. Fortunately, none of them damaged the transmitter, but it did slow them down.

“That should do it,” Xi said, closing the transmitter’s casing. “Do you want me to run the diagnostics on it again?”

“No,” Rusty told him, laughing softly. “I think three times is enough.”

Xi frowned slightly. “But,” he protested quietly. “What if--?”

“Then we know where to find you,” the Chief told him with gentle firmness. “No skedaddle.”

“Yes, Chief . . .” Xi glanced toward Elizabeth. “Sir.”

Not displaying the haste that he had demonstrated earlier when the Captain had dismissed him, Xi left the chamber, casting several last glances behind him as he went.

“Skedaddle?” Elizabeth asked, looking at the Chief Engineer with bemusement.

“Don’t watch a lot of old flat-dee, do you?” Rusty replied, placing the transmitter module into a padded transportation case.

“No . . .” Elizabeth said, shaking her head, causing her chestnut-tinted ponytail to wave from side to side like its namesake. She gathered the last of the tools that they no longer needed and returned them to the equipment cart.

“Your loss,” Rusty said, placing the transport case on the top of cart. “It’s quite educational,” he added casually, “from an historical perspective.” He raised his arm high and waved it forward with an exaggerated flourish. “Wagons ho!”

Elizabeth looked on as he pushed the heavily loaded cart with ease through the open hatchway, watching the play of the thick and sturdy muscles along his upper arms and shoulders.

“You coming, Lizzie?” Rusty asked, pausing a few meters into the main chamber. “Or are you going inventory all of the stem bolts first to make sure we didn’t miss any?”

“Coming . . .” she called to him without really shouting, and followed him from the work room.

Rusty grinned to himself and headed for the nearest shaft.

Elizabeth had to maintain a trot to keep up with him. Although she tried to suppress it, she was mildly winded by the time they reached Infirmary’s main hatchway. Rusty waited while she opened the hatch and then pushed the laden equipment through cart.

Their arrival earned them stares from both Zee and Bayer, who was apparently awake in order to eat. Elizabeth felt relief at seeing that, knowing that being on solid food again was a definite milestone of recovery.

Rusty waved cheerily, grinning at them as he and Elizabeth pushed the cart through the Infirmary’s main compartment. He felt their eyes, and curiosity, still on them as they disappeared into the short corridor that led to the isolation pod’s antechamber.

Hope was there when they arrived. She looked up from the console where she monitored Hawkes’ condition.

“You are ready?”

Rusty looked down at the transport case and then across the chamber at Hawkes. “I will guess we’ll find out,” he said. “Open ‘er up.”

Hope tapped out a series of commands on the console in front of her. The inner hatchway hissed as the containment seals withdrew and then Rusty heard the lock disengage. Elizabeth opened the hatch, standing aside so that Rusty could enter with the cart. With the two of them, the equipment cart, and the diagnostic bed containing Hawkes, they were would be working in close quarters for a while.

Rusty positioned the cart on the right side of the bed, struggling slightly not to collide with the other pieces of equipment present there.

“Hope,” he called out. “Do you really need all this stuff in here?”

She paused before answering and, for a moment, he thought she might actually admit that she did not.

“Yes.”

“Of course you do,” he murmured.

He considered self-seriously just ramming pieces of it out of his way so that he and Elizabeth had somewhere to stand without bumping elbows with either themselves or the other pieces of medical equipment.

Elizabeth slid in through the hatchway and closed the hatch behind her. The seals slid back into place and the hatch’s lock reengaged.

“Cozy . . .”

“Could be worse,” Elizabeth countered, almost under her breath.

Rusty waited, but she did not elaborate. He looked around, looking for a small empty surface where they place the transmitter. The cart would do, but it would a lot easier if they could put it somewhere else.

He located a small rolling tray that was probably used to hold medical supplies. Pressing down on its surface, he tested it strength. It was tougher than it looked. The transmitter module was not that heavy, but once he added the power supply and—

“You did bring the power supply?” he asked Elizabeth. “Please tell me that you brought the power supply.”

Elizabeth looked unperturbed. “There should be at least one inside the cart.”

There’d better be.

As he leaned down to open the cart’s storage compartment, he eyed the hatchway, figuring that it would be easier to send Elizabeth back out after one if it was not there.

Would serve her right for forgettin’ it.

To his relief and surprise, Rusty found two of them stored inside the cart. They were of different sizes and capacities, but either one, he figured, would work for what they needed. He grabbed the smaller one of the two, opting for that over increased power.

Can always switch ‘em later.

He placed it on the cart next to the transmitter and starting sorting through the leads that ran from the transmitter module.

“Is it the yellow or the red one that causes it to blow up?”

“The black one,” Elizabeth replied flatly.

“Of course.”

Rusty finished gathering the leads that he needed, making a mental note to keep any attempts at humor to himself for now.

He finished connected the leads and, with a silent plea to the Morris, switched on the power supply. The indicator light on its status panel glowed green, which he took as a promising sign. It showed a full charge, which pleased him, as it meant he would not need to scold his team again for not leaving the carts properly stocked.

“Ready?” he asked Elizabeth without looking up.

She nodded, standing ready with her tablet to remotely configure the transmitter.

Rusty found the manual test switch. Usually, it was operated from the torpedo’s internal computer. A series of indicator lights flashed in a variety of colors. He glanced up at Elizabeth, whose eyebrows rose in the equivalent of a shrug.

We can always call Xi . . .

The blinking of indicator lights settled into a steady cadence. While not all the same hue, Rusty guessed that it meant that the transmitter was ready for accept instructions. He looked up at Elizabeth.

“Well?”

She tapped the controls on her tablet and then nodded, smiling. “We have control.” Her smile faded. “Now what?”

Rusty stared back at her. “You mean you don’t know?”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened with a clear threat. Rusty grinned.

“Hope,” he called through the chamber’s intercom. “Which one of these things can we monitor a transmitter frequency through?”

He watched through the transparent panel as she worked the controls of her console. One of the displays toward the top right of the bed went blank.

“Got it?”

Elizabeth nodded and began tapping out commands on her tablet. A few seconds later, data from the transmitter appeared on the display. Elizabeth grinned.

Rusty joined her, feeling as though something was finally going right.

“I assume you have a plan?”

Elizabeth stared back at him, her grin fading.

“This was your idea.”

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed.

“Yes,” she said, sounding confident again. “We’ll start running a range of frequencies to see whether we get any response.” She tapped at her tablet. “We’ll skip any of the commonly used ones, as I suspect they wouldn’t want any accidental interference.”

Rusty nodded in agreement. “Also any that are close to the operating frequencies of any of the equipment.”

Elizabeth nodded slowly as she continued to enter instructions to the transmitter on her tablet. “Good idea.” After several long seconds, she looked up. “That should do it,” she said. “I think.”

“How long will it take?” Rusty asked her.

Elizabeth blinked and then checked her tablet. “Several hours, probably,” she replied, frowning.

Rusty looked down at Hawkes. “He might not have many left.”

“I know,” Elizabeth agreed solemnly. “I told it to skip the multiples,” she added. “That might help.”

“It might,” Rusty agreed. His eyes turned toward the transmitter. “What else can we do now—besides wait?”

“Lunch?” Elizabeth asked tentatively.

Rusty eyed her questioningly.

“I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” she explained with deliberate calmness. “And I need to . . . take care of something else.”

Rusty opened his mouth, but his stomach chose that moment to announce its agreement with Elizabeth’s proposal.

“I hate to leave him, though,” she said. “Minutes could count.”

“They could,” Rusty agreed, not wholly willing to admit that he felt the same way. “Hope’s here, though.”

“I know,” Elizabeth said. “Still . . .”

“I will watch.”

Hope’s voice surprised Rusty and, from what he could see, completely startled Elizabeth. They both turned toward the transparent viewing panel. Hope stared in at them. He had forgotten that she probably monitored everything that was said and done in the isolation pod.

Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Rusty. He nodded.

“Go.”

“I think we’re being kicked out,” Elizabeth said. Her lips formed a slight smile.

“It does sound like that,” Rusty agreed. “Doctor’s orders, even.”

Elizabeth laughed softly. “All right,” she conceded. “Let’s go.”

She reached down and tapped out the code to unseal the hatch. As the hatch unlocked, she turned toward Rusty.

“But you’re buying.”

Emerald Flight: “Human Factors” (continued)

Elizabeth looked at the image with growing horror, while a strange chill trickled across her body. The implications of what she had just seen . . .

“Commander?”

Devereux’s voice broke through her reverie.

Elizabeth shook her head slightly and turned to face Devereux. “Yes, Captain?” Her cheeks tingled with embarrassment. “Sorry.”

The Captain gave her a quick, reassuring smile. “Something on your mind?” Devereux asked her. “You haven’t said much.”

Elizabeth stared at the floating image of the implant, unable to look away. “I don’t know,” she admitted quietly. “It’s just . . . disturbing.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Devereux nodded. She turned toward Rusty. “Do you think you can access its programming, maybe find out what its intended purpose is?”

Rusty frowned, a strangely solemn look at the Chief Engineer’s broad face. He studied the image and then tapped controls on the tabletop to rotate it.

“It’s probably shielded,” he mused aloud. “To protect it from accidental interference,” he explained. “But there’s got to be a way. I don’t think they—whoever ‘they’ are—would want to have to go poking around in his brain every time they wanted to update it.”

An icy chill chased its ways down Elizabeth’s spine.

“Commander?”

Elizabeth’s cheeks tingled again. The Captain had noticed.

“Um.” She swallowed hard before trying again. “Does that mean that someone on board might be controlling him?”

Devereux’s eyes locked with hers. Apparently, this idea had not yet occurred to the Captain. Elizabeth could not decide whether she should be pleased with herself or terrified that she was the one who thought of it first.

The Captain looked away, her eyes turning back to the floating display. The Chief’s expression looked uncharacteristically grim.

“I want all of the internal communications logs checked,” Devereux told Elizabeth. “All of the computer network traffic too.”

Elizabeth’s eyed widened involuntarily with surprise. Even with a full staff on it, that would take several hours. Devereux read her expression.

“I know,” the Captain said. “I’m open to alternatives.”

Elizabeth exchanged a look with Rusty. His large, blonde eyebrows rose in a shrug. Elizabeth fought down a sigh and noted the order.

Devereux addressed Hope without looking at her.

“What do you think, Hope?” she asked the Medical Officer. “Can we access it?”

“I do not know.”

Devereux’s mouth formed a tight line. Her eyes remained on the images floating above the conference table.

“Chief,” she said. “I want you and Elizabeth to see if you can access the implant. See if you can find out what its programmed to do. Work with Hope.”

Elizabeth looked from Rusty to Hope and then back at the Captain. Rusty opened his mouth, but Devereux interrupted him.

“Keep this quiet for now,” she told them. Her lips formed a grimace. “We can’t hide what’s happened so far, but if this . . . this implant has nothing to do with it, then I don’t want it getting out. He deserves that much from us.”

“Yes, Captain,” Elizabeth said.

She glanced over at Rusty, who nodded his assent. He looked surprisingly grim.

“We’re on it, Cap’n,” he said solemnly.

‘Hope,” Devereux said, turning again to the Medical Officer. “Anything else to add?”

The Aerian waited for a moment before answering. Although her expression did not change, Elizabeth could tell that she was thinking.

“No.”

Devereux studied the Medical Officer for a long moment before nodding. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s get moving. I want regular status reports.”

“Yes, Captain,” Elizabeth and Hope replied, almost in unison.

Elizabeth rose and followed Rusty out through the hatchway. Behind her, she heard Devereux say, “Hope? A moment, please.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Elizabeth closed the hatch behind her, presuming that the Captain wanted privacy.

“Quite the deal, eh, Lizzie?” Rusty said as she caught up with him in the corridor.

Elizabeth frowned, finding no humor in the situation at all. Looking up into the Chief’s expression, she realized that he did not either.

He’s taking this hard.

That kind of surprised her. Despite all of his other purported faults—most of which, Elizabeth knew, were blown far out of proportion, but Rusty seemed to delight in perpetuating the stores—she knew that he was, at his core, compassionate toward those he trusted and befriended. His, sometimes semi-public, digs at Hope and Hawkes were targeted more at garnering a reaction from them rather than through any real sense of mean-spiritedness.

“Yeah,” she agreed. She paused for a moment, realizing that she really did not have anything useful to add. “Do you have any idea where to start?”

“Well . . .” he began. “Since I’m pretty sure the Captain won’t let us saw open the Lieutenant’s head, we’re going to see what this can tell us.” He gestured with his tablet. “I downloaded the readings that Hope took.”

Elizabeth nodded her agreement and then played that back again in her mind. She could not recall the last time that the Chief Engineer had referred to Hawkes as pretty much anything but “the Ol’ Fossil”—if not something even complimentary. The Tactical Officer, as far as Elizabeth knew, had never voiced a complaint about, so she wondered what he really thought about it.

“Have you ever seen anything like it?”

Rusty shook his head in response. “No,” he said, his voice suddenly dropping into a low, almost conspiratorial tone. “But I’ve heard things.”

Elizabeth stared at him, but the Chief Engineer offered no further details.

They walked together in silence, descending the lift together, although Elizabeth did not exactly know where they were heading.

“Do you think someone here is controlling him?”

Rusty paused, his lips drawn tight. After a moment, he shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “It just doesn’t . . . feel right.”

Elizabeth studied him, wanting to believe it. Still, she found herself somewhat reassured by the Chief’s statement.

If there was someone on board . . .

Elizabeth shook her head slowly, trying hard not to follow all of the grave ramifications of that possibility.

“If I’m wrong,” Rusty went on. “Then someone’s earned themselves a one-way trip out an airlock.” He began moving again. “If they live that long.”

Elizabeth stared after him, feeling a renewed chill trickle across her body. She had never heard such jagged determination in the Chief’s voice before—and she wondered whether she would try to stop him.

#

Rusty did his best to keep his face turned away from Elizabeth. Inside, he seethed—and was certain that he was doing a poor job of hiding it. He had lied to Elizabeth.

Well, not so much a lie, he told himself, as a sin of omission.

He had not only heard of such implants before, he had seen them in action—brutally. He wanted to close his eyes against the mental images, but knew from experience that doing so only made the memories more vivid.

And it was not just that, he realized.

Someone’s messing with Hawkes.

As much as he might deride the man in public, he had to admit to a grudging respect for the Tactical Officer. Despite his remote and detached manner, the man stayed unperturbedly cool under fire. Whatever opinions that Hawkes might give about his abilities or conduct, Rusty had no doubt that the man would have his back during a firefight.

And then probably note in his log afterward that I’d used my weapon wrong.

The last almost brought a wan smile to Rusty’s face.

He paused at the next junction, realizing that he had no idea where he was heading. Looking around the corridor, he checked with his inner sense and recognized the direction he had taken.

The Infirmary.

Makes sense, he admitted. That’s where the Lieutenant is.

He paused and waited for Elizabeth to catch up.

And Hope. He let out a short, shallow sigh. Won’t that be fun?

“Chief?” Elizabeth eyed him curiously.

“The Infirmary,” he told her, answering her unasked question. “Where else?”

He began moving again, heading toward the shaft that would take them to the deck they needed. Elizabeth did not protest or question him. Instead, she remained unusually silent.

This’s kind of rocked us all, hasn’t it?

He waited for her at shaft.

“Ladies first,” he gestured, flashing her a quick smile.

“Since when?” she countered lightly, although the strain still showed in her voice.

“Since I learned to look up little girls’ skirts,” he grinned, and followed her into the shaft.

When they reached the Infirmary’s deck, Elizabeth exited first and then asked Rusty as they moved out into corridor, “Have any ideas where to start?”

“Some,” Rusty replied. “But only some.”

When he did not explain further, she prompted him with, “Like?”

“Well,” he said, drawing the word as if it contained multiple syllables. “If it’s that small, it’s going to require a tight beam,” he said. “Plus it’s got to get through tissues and bone.”

Elizabeth started to disagree and then stopped. Rusty watched understanding come to her as she realized that, at that microscopic level, it was probably true. In this case, it was probably not so much a matter of getting a signal in, as it was getting one out. The amount of energy required to do so might drain the implant’s power source—whatever that was—pretty quickly.

“Any idea where to start?”

“Not really,” Rusty admitted. He then turned to Elizabeth and grinned. “But I’m sure something’ll come up.”

They entered the main compartment of the Infirmary. As far as Rusty could tell, Hope had not yet returned. He saw Ramsey in the recovery bay tending to Bayer and Owens.

“What about torpedoes?” Elizabeth asked him.

He stopped and stared at her, not yet following her reasoning.

“Isn’t that a bit drastic?” he asked her. “We want to get inside his head,” he said. “Not blow it to bits.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

“The transmitters in the torpedoes,” she explained. “They have to function through radiation-proof casings and be accurate at a distance.”

Rusty studied her for a moment, thinking that over.

Not bad . . .

A grin spread over his face.

“Go to the head of class,” he said. “Oh, wait,” he added, grinning more broadly now. “You already did.”

She beamed at this and then quickly recovered her composure.

“Xi would be better at it,” she told him.

Rusty nodded his agreement, trying to recall whether the technician was currently on duty. He was, Rusty remembered, working on some minor upgrades to the fore sensor arrays.

“We can’t tell him.”

“I know,” Rusty replied, trying to mask his irritation with a more thoughtful tone. “I’ll think of something.”

They approached the isolation bay and peered inside. A strange sense of sadness welled up inside Rusty. It did not seem right, somehow, for Hawkes to be lying there, under restraints, with his mind possibly under control of some alien device.

Alien?

Several of the non-human races that the Fleet had encountered possessed some level of nanotechnology. An implant of this type would not be beyond the capabilities of most of them.

Why would some alien want to put that in the Ol’ Fossil’s brain? He paused, considering another option. Or maybe it’s just alien tech.

“Chief?”

Elizabeth’s voice jolted him back to the present.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Just thinkin’.”

He tapped out his access code to open the outer hatch. It chimed after a moment and he heard the seals disengage and withdraw. He pushed the hatch open, holding it open so that Elizabeth could pass through. She gave him a curious glance as she passed and then waited while he closed the hatch behind them.

Elizabeth went over and stared down at the displays within the small chamber. Rusty could tell from her expression that she could not make sense of most of them. He doubted that he could do even that well. Reaching beyond her, he tapped out the code to open the inner hatch.

“What are you doing?!”

Rusty stared back at her, seeing disbelief and anger flash across her eyes.

“Opening the door,” he replied calmly, hearing the soft chime of it accepting his access code.

“What if it’s some kind of virus?”

Rusty stared back at her. His expression was one of tranquil calm. “The Doc didn’t say it was.”

“She didn’t say that it wasn’t.” Elizabeth’s tone was sharp. It reminded him, a little, of the stringent tone that some officers used to intimidate cadets and ensigns.

“Too late now,” he said, pushing open the hatch.

He heard Elizabeth gasp, but at that moment there was nothing that she could do. The seal had been breached.

Rusty entered the inner isolation chamber and stood next to Hawkes’ bed. He looked down at the Tactical Officer, noting that the sterile lighting gave his complexion an unusually gray and pale cast.

“What’s that you’ve got inside your head, old man?” he whispered.

#

Hope entered the Infirmary and quickly assessed her surroundings. Lieutenant Ramsey was in the recovery bay attending the Security Ensign Bayer. She strode to her desk, but did not sit down. The indicators signaled that the isolation bay had been accessed and entered. Looking toward Lieutenant Ramsey again, Hope determined that it could not have been her. Not enough time had elapsed since the hatches had been opened for her to return to the recovery bay.

Without a word to Lieutenant Ramsey, Hope headed toward the isolation bay. She did not hurry, for the access log had shown that the panel had been accessed from the outside, not from the interior of the chamber. The monitors told her that the Tactical Officer remained under sedation and restrained.

The First Officer turned at her approach. Her expression, already troubled, now became flushed as blood rushed toward the surface of her skin.

“Hope . . .” the First Officer said, trailing off when Hope continued to approach.

The Chief Engineer did not turn, but continue to examine the diagnostic readings being displayed.

“Hiya, Doc,” he said almost flippantly. “We were just taking a look—“

“The Captain informed me.”

The First Officer’s posture changed as she relaxed. She glanced toward the Chief Engineer, but he did not seem to see her.

The Chief Engineer looked around the chamber. “Is this room shielded?”

“It can be.”

“But it’s not now?”

“No.”

The Chief Engineer frowned. “Do it,” he told Hope.

Hope stared back at him, but chose to comply with his request. She began to speak, but the Chief Engineer cut her off.

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “It works better with the room sealed. We’ll get to that.”

Hope stared at for several additional seconds, and then moved to the control panel. She worked the controls, activating the electronic field that shielded the chamber from external signals. Hope sensed a faint hum in her surroundings, but did not know whether or not the First Officer or Chief Engineer could perceive it.

The Chief Engineer’s eyes remained fixed on the Tactical Officer. “Any change?”

Hope checked the medical displays.

“No.”

“Seal the room,” the Chief Engineer said.

The First Officer tapped the controls to seal the hatch. Hope heard the hissing sounds of the seals sliding into place and then the metallic noise of the lock engaging.

“Done,” the First Officer said.

Hope did not question why the First Officer was taking orders from the Chief Engineer. She had served with Humans and, in particular, this Crew long enough to know that sometimes their Hierarchy was not as strictly followed as it was with her own people.

“Any change now?” the Chief Engineer asked her.

Hope checked the medical displays again.

“No.”

“Well that’s something,” the Chief Engineer said. “I guess.”

The three of them stared down at the still form of the Tactical Officer.

“What now?” the First Officer asked the Chief Engineer.

The Chief Engineer gave the facial equivalent of a shrug. “I guess we’d better talk to Xi.”

Engineer Xi arrived in the Infirmary ten minutes later. Hope heard him conversing with Lieutenant Ramsey in main compartment. Their conversation seemed to contain little useful content, and continued for a period of time that seemed unnecessarily longer than we required by the Human social convention.

When Engineer Xi finally entered the antechamber of the isolation pod, Hope noted that his cheeks were lightly flushed and his pulse beat at a higher than expected rate. Had this been the first time that Hope had witnessed such conditions in a Human, she would have immediately the assumed the onset of some illness. She had come to recognize, though, these mild symptoms and the frequency and which they occurred among certain members of the Crew. The Chief Engineer had said that Engineer Xi had developed a “crush” on Lieutenant Ramsey, even though Lieutenant Ramsey was of higher rank and a few years older than the Engineer.

The Captain had reassured that the condition was neither life-threatening nor contagious—although she hinted that “not contagious” might not be a wholly accurate description, as it could apparently be transmitted to the other individual. In the end, Hope had chosen to trust the Captain’s assessment and decided to ignore the presentation of those specific symptoms unless other, more serious, ones were present.

“Chief,” Engineer Xi said, addressing the Chief Engineer with respect as he entered. He turned, not realizing that the First Officer was also present, and greeted her respectfully as well. “Commander.”

For this, Hope could almost ignore the delay in his arrival.

The Chief Engineer explained the First Officer’s idea to Engineer Xi. Engineer Xi nodded with understanding as the Chief Engineer finished his proposal.

“That’s an interesting idea,” Engineer agreed. “Where do you want it set up? Near the aft communications array?”

“Not exactly,” the First Officer said.

Engineer Xi looked at the First Officer and then back at Chief Engineer. Confusion was clearly evident on his expression.

“Okay,” Engineer Xi said. “Where then?”

The Chief Engineer pointed toward the deck. Engineer Xi looked down and then frowned with puzzlement at the Chief Engineer.

“In the auxiliary storage compartment on Deck Five?”

The First Officer barely hid a smirk.

“No,” the Chief Engineer explained. “Right here.”

Engineer Xi stared at the Chief Engineer in confused disbelief. He looked toward the First Officer, who nodded her confirmation of the Chief Engineer’s orders.

“Here.” Engineer Xi repeated the word, although it almost sounded to Hope like a question.

The Chief Engineer nodded. Engineer Xi looked toward the Tactical Officer’s still form and then back at the Chief Engineer.

“Why here?”

“Because,” the Chief Engineer said, his face taking on a strange expression that appeared to alarm Engineer Xi. “We want to talk directly to the Lieutenant’s brain.”

Engineer Xi stared at the Chief Engineer, over at the First Officer, who stared back at him without expression. He then turned to look at Hope, who said nothing. She did not want to interfere with the Chief Engineer’s instructions.

“So when can we have it?” the Chief Engineer asked, almost casually.

Engineer Xi studied the Chief Engineer for a long moment, coming to realize that the Chief Engineer was being wholly serious.

“Well . . . um,” Engineer Xi said. “I’ll need to pull one of the torpedoes from munitions storage.” He looked toward the First Officer. “I’ll need authorization for that.”

Elizabeth nodded and tapped out a message on her tablet. “Done.”

Engineer Xi swallowed hard. “Um,” he went on. “Then I’ll need to remove the payload and transmitter, disconnect the transmitter module, and then bring it back up here.” He looked thoughtfully toward the ceiling. “Maybe a half hour?”

“Make it twenty minutes,” the Chief Engineer said.

Engineer Xi swallowed again. “Um, okay,” he said. “Twenty minutes.”

“Get to it then,” the Chief Engineeer said.

“Yes, Chief!”

Engineer Xi left quickly, nearly tripping over the hatchway in his haste to depart.

The Chief Engineer grinned and the First Officer smiled, laughing quietly.

“Now I remember why I don’t want to work for you,” she said.

“You loved it and you know it,” the Chief Engineer said. His eyes turned the chronometer visible among the medical displays. “Want to grab some coffee?” he said. “We have thirty minutes.”

The First Officer looked surprised. “You told him twenty minutes.”

The Chief Engineer chuckled. “Even I couldn’t do it in less than forty,” he said. He turned to Hope. “We’ll back in thirty minutes . . . or so.” He headed for the hatchway. “If Xi gets here before then,” he told Hope. “Find out how he likes his coffee.”

The First Officer, after taking another look at the Tactical Officer, turned and followed the Chief Engineer out of the Infirmary. Hope stared after them, trying to comprehend the interaction that had just taken place in front of her.

She turned back toward the inner isolation pod and stared at the unconscious Tactical Officer. Like all of the others of the Crew, he was Human, but at least she usually understood him.

#

He had no sense of how much time had passed. There was nothing to tell him. The white haze that continued to surround him provided no clues. When he attempted to focus on it, to follow one barely perceptible strand of mist, his mind wandered and it was lost.

The voices he thought he had once heard where all but gone now. Different ones had come, but had been no more comprehensible than had any of the others. What few sensations he had felt, the ones that reminded him that he still had a physical form, had continued to diminish.

He began to wonder once again whether this was, indeed, death.

- 9 -

Devereux put down the tablet and rubbed her eyes. Her attention kept wandering and her head had begun to throb again. She wondered whether she should tell Hope, or just head to her quarters and hope that a good night’s sleep might do the job.

The audit of the cargo bay’s inventory against its logged manifest had yielded not discrepancies. Not only was every container accounted for, but it was located exactly where the manifest said it would be.

“We can thank Chop for that,” she murmured gratefully.

Whatever Hawkes might have been after in there, he had not moved any of the cargo pods around in order to find it.

The inspection of the individual containers was still underway. Ratko had reported that it would probably take at least another shift and a half to finish them all. She had been tempted to call off that part of the search, but decided against it, not wanting to possibly any clues as a result of her own mental fatigue.

She looked at the chronometer.

Only thirty-three more minutes to go.

She checked the duty roster again to see who was scheduled to take the bridge for the next shift. Lieutenant Ferahim, she saw, was assigned to Tactical.

Good officer, Devereux mused. Well on her way to Lieutenant Commander. She’d be a good replacement for—

She caught off the thought before it was finished.

No, she reprimanded herself. We’re not giving up yet.

She checked their estimated time of arrival at New Haven. Doing some quick math in her head, she determined that she had plenty of time to be rested and ready when they arrived.

Not that there’s much I’ll need to do.

Once they arrived in orbit, it was chiefly a matter of transferring supplies down to the colony. New Haven had their own small fleet of shuttles, but they would be relying on the Emerald Flight’s shuttle to ferry the heavy equipment down to the surface. It would give a few members of the crew a chance for a few hours of shore leave, but little else. The colony did not have the fuel to spare for multiple trips with their own shuttles.

She leaned back from the desk. Engineering had put the command console back together again, almost better than new, but she was still locked out from nearly all of the command functions. It was, at one level, maddening and, at another, instructive. She had made a note to add the scenario to their battle drills when Hawkes returned to duty.

When, she reiterated silently. Not if.

The intercom chimed for her attention. Seeing that it was Hope, she accepted the call. Hope’s face appeared on the small display.

“Captain.”

‘What is it, Hope?” she asked tiredly.

“Tactical Officer Hawkes. His condition has changed.”

Devereux became suddenly more alert.

“What’s going on?”

Hope hesitated before answering, even looking away from the screen for an instant.

“Hope?”

“Can you come?”

Devereux fought back a sigh and nodded. “I’m on my way.”

Rising from the chair, she tucked the tablet under her arm and headed for the main hatchway.

“Lieutenant,” she called to Pyrafox as she crossed the bridge. “You have the bridge,” she told him. “I’ll be in the Infirmary.”

Pyrafox acknowledged her order, but she missed any additional comment that he might have made, as she was already out into the corridor.

As Devereux made her way along the corridor, she wearily noted the fact that it was taking her in the opposite direction from her quarters.

This had better be good, Hope.

She wanted to take any change in Hawkes’ condition as a positive sign, but that Hope wanted her to come to the Infirmary personally did not bode well.

Devereux entered the shaft and headed for the deck that housed the Infirmary, trying to ignore that she continued to travel further and further away from her quarters.

She entered the Infirmary as Lieutenant Ramsey was handing off her duties to Ensign Zee. They both straightened upon seeing her and, Devereux guessed, probably would have saluted had she not made it clear long ago that she considered it unnecessary except in formal situations.

“Where’s Hope?” she asked them.

Ramsey looked quickly around before answering. “The isolation bay,” she told Devereux. “Or at least she was ten minutes ago.”

“Thank you,” Devereux said, giving both of the young officers a quick smile, and headed deeper into the Infirmary.

She found Hope in the inner chamber of the isolation bay, but not within the sealed pod itself. The Aerian Medical Officer stopped reviewing the data on the displays in front of her and turned to meet the Captain.

Devereux looked beyond Hope into the isolation pod. From what she could tell, Hawkes looked the same as the last time she had seen him there: unconscious, still, and restrained.

“You said there’s been a change in his condition?”

“Yes.”

“Hope,” Devereux said irritably. “I’m really not in the mood . . .” She took a slow breath before continuing. “What’s going on?”

“His condition degrades.”

Sudden alarm masked Devereux’s fatigue.

“What happened?”

“I do not know.”

Devereux’s turned to face the isolation pod. “Is it because of the massive stun? Or the prolonged sedation?”

“I do not know.”

Devereux turned her head to stare at Hope. “I’m sure you didn’t call me down here just to tell me that you don’t know why he’s dying.”

“No.”

“But you have no idea what’s causing it?”

“No.”

“Then why?” Devereux allowed her exasperation to show in her voice. To her ears, though, it came out breathless and exhausted.

“Thirty hours.”

Devereux stared at Hope.

“Thirty hours?” she echoed, not quite believing it. “He had thirty hours if you can’t figure out how to stop it?”

“Yes.”

“Damn it.” Devereux’s voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper.

She stared at Hawkes through the sealed glass, thinking that she could almost see his life slipping away. Memories of her last months with her father returned; she pushed them away.

“And there’s nothing you can do?”

“I do not know.”

You keep saying that! Devereux wanted to scream at her, but knew that it would have no effect. It might make me feel better, but it won’t help Hawkes.

After a moment, Hope spoke again.

“I will try.”

“I’m sure you will,” Devereux said quietly.

She turned and paused in the open hatchway. “I’ll let Elizabeth and the Chief know.”

#

Elizabeth and Rusty had accompanied Xi to munitions storage. Having the First Officer physically present, she determined, might preclude too many awkward questions from being asked.

It isn’t that the questions that’d be awkward, she told herself wryly. It’s the answers.

With both she and Rusty present, no one had questioned Xi. They had transported the torpedo to an enclosed and reinforced work area away from the Main Engineering Deck because, as both Elizabeth and Rusty knew, accidents did happen. That Rusty remained so calm during all of this reassured Elizabeth to some degree, but not wholly.

When she had been assigned to Engineering, she had always disliked—no, she decided, “hate” would not be too strong a word—being given munitions-related assignments. Firing torpedoes from the safety of the bridge was one thing; actually working on, and touching, them was something else entirely. Try as she might, she could never quite convince herself that hers would not be the torpedo with the sudden and unexplained arming malfunction. They would mourn her, even as they scraped her remains off the bulkheads for weeks afterward.

Apparently the psych profiles missed that, huh?

She watched as Xi removed the payload with Rusty’s assistance. Every muscle in her body was drawn taut with tension. She was ready to bolt from the chamber at the slightest hint that something had gone wrong—whether she needed to or not.

I guess that’s one thing about getting blown to bits by a malfunctioning torpedo, she mused wryly. You probably won’t know it when it happens.

That did not prevent her mind from presenting her with a variety of scenarios where she might feel it happening. She pushed them away, trying to remain intent on watching Rusty and Xi’s progress.

They removed the payload assembly without any problems. The transmitter module gave them a little trouble, as there were some extra connections that neither Xi nor Rusty could recall being there before. Elizabeth suspected that they were related to the improved guidance systems that she had seen the specifications on.

The red wire or the blue wire?

Elizabeth shook her head slightly.

Where had that come from?

She could recall nothing from either the training that she had received from Rusty or Hawkes, or from any courses at the Academy, where such an option was offered.

After a lengthy discussion, and a much shorter amount of time spent in research, the two of them solved the problem, successfully removing the transmitter module without triggering the explosive payload. But it was not until the payload and torpedo casing had been returned to munitions storage that Elizabeth began to relax.

A metallic knock sounded from the frame around the chamber’s hatchway. Even though they no longer required its protection, the three of them had chosen to remain working in the chamber, although with hatch open now, as their equipment was already there.

Elizabeth turned, ready to chastise one of the Engineering crew for disturbing them despite orders not to.

“Captain!”

Xi spun, nearly dropping the tool that he held, and coming to attention. Rusty kept working, apparently choosing to ignore the interruption, regardless of who had caused it.

Emerald Flight: “Human Factors” (continued)

She paused as she entered, observing Lieutenant Ramsey as she checked on the conditions of Engineer Owens and Security Ensign Bayer. Engineer Owens remained unconscious, as Hope expected that he would for at least several more hours. The Human body was not as well adapted to recover for injuries sustained in combat as were those of the Star Bloods or ancient Star Wings of her own race. Even she, despite not being Designed for battle, would recover more quickly.

Security Ensign Bayer was further along in his recovery, but still required rest. Although he had not suffered as many injuries as Engineer Owens from the Tactical Officer’s attack, those of Security Ensign Bayer were more serious. Many of his injuries had affected internal organs and had required delicate surgery to repair. His recovery would be different from Engineer Owens, but his overall prognosis was very good.

Lieutenant Ramsey saw her watching. “Is anything wrong?”

Hope looked up at Lieutenant Ramsey’s eyes.

“No. Continue.”

Lieutenant Ramsey held her gaze for a moment before turning her attention back to the diagnostic displays above Security Ensign Bayer’s bed. Hope noticed that Lieutenant Ramsey’s eyes continued to look in her direction for quick intervals and realized that her unintentional scrutiny was making the medical assistant uneasy. She turned and headed for her desk. It would still give her a clear view of the recovery bay, but might make her presence less conspicuous and put Lieutenant Ramsey more at ease.

Humans, Hope had discovered, possessed a fierce aversion to being constantly supervised, even when serving on starships where such surveillance was not only common, but necessary. On her home world, there was no escape from such surveillance. It had been part of their existence since, as far as anyone could determine, their Creation. One knew of it from the moment they became Aware and accepted it. It was as much of part of their environment as was the carefully managed foliage and waterways.

Hope tapped a control on her console and brought up a view of the isolation pod. Secured behind two sets of hermetically sealed hatches, she could not see directly into it from her desk. The image flickered into view above her desk, showing the Tactical Officer, still under restraints, resting under deep sedation. She had finally managed to find a combination of sedative compounds that appeared to maintain the Tactical Officer at the level that she wanted. It could not be sustained for an extended period, so she focused her efforts at determining the cause of his aberrant behavior before that limit was reached.

As they had been all along, all of the biochemical readings were within the ranges that she expected them to be. His brain wave patterns, though, continued to show unexpectedly high activity even under the increased sedation. Hope brought up the series of medical scans done of the Tactical Officer’s brain and skull. They matched all of those she had ever taken previously, as well as those stored in his service medical records. Unlike the brains of each of the Aerian races, the brains of Humans varied widely, even within the same gender, genetic branch, or environmental conditions. It made treatment of damage to it much more difficult, as it often had to be uniquely designed for each individual—and then only after much testing and evaluation.

Inefficient.

It was not the first time that Hope had made that observation about Humans. There was such variability in their biological and genetic systems that she was often amazed that their medical science had managed to advance as far as it had. Dealing with the vast number of exceptions in their Design had made it difficult for them to devise effective treatments that could safely be administered to the entire population.

She brought up the latest scan of the Tactical Officer’s brain, enlarging it, and then traversing both its surface and interior along the pathways that Human research had reported were responsible for behavior and judgment. Such research, she had learned, was not always conclusive. That was likely due, once again, to the wide variance in the subjects under study.

There.

She had noticed it before: a small, irregularly-shaped shadow. When she had originally found it, years before, she had been concerned that it might have been a tumor or other form of damage to the Tactical Officer’s brain. Unlike most such conditions, though, it had never varied in shape, size, or location. A series of tiny, almost microscopic, tendrils trailed out from it. These all ended near three main sections of his brain.

When Hope had queried Fleet Medical for more information, they had provided a response that it was due to an early childhood incident and that it should require no further investigation. All of her additional requests for information had been ignored. As it did not appear to negatively affect the Tactical Officer’s health, mental condition, or performance, Hope had not raised the matter with the Captain. She was hesitant to do so without further cause, choosing patient confidentiality over satisfying her own curiosity.

She enlarged that section of the brain, bringing the small shadow into higher relief. If it was some kind tumor or clot, it was positioned within a fold so that it was difficult to make out even without more invasive scanning techniques. Hope examined it thoughtfully, trying to decide whether further investigation of it was necessary. Nothing else she had attempted so far had yielded any useful results and there was precedent for old brain injuries causing sudden changes in memory and behavior as the person aged.

Rising from the desk, she strode quietly over the restricted storage cabinet. Unlike those that contained bandages and simple analgesics, of which members of the crew might require when the Infirmary was not occupied—a very rare occasion, as Hope conducted most of her research there—these required special authorization to access. These precautions went even beyond those put in place for the controlled medications and equipment.

Hope entered her authorization code, noting that it would be verified and logged. When prompted, she requested that the nanite be programmed only to observe organ function and record any biochemical data associated with it. The unit could then self-destruct into inert elements and be absorbed by the patient’s body fluids.

The system hummed softly while it considered her request, found that it did not violate any of the proscribed uses, and produced the microscopic probe. Per her request, the system packaged it in a standard hypodermic ampoule immersed in a standard saline solution. A soft chime signaled its completion. Hope took the ampoule from the tray and carried it to the isolation bay. She tapped out her access code and entered the antechamber.

She withdrew a hypodermic assembly from the small cabinet there and snapped the ampoule into place. The indicator on it glowed pale blue, signifying that it had been installed correctly. Hope entered her access code again, waited for the seals to disengage, and stepped into the isolation pod.

Before injecting the Tactical Officer, she checked the diagnostic displays once more. They were essentially unchanged from what she had observed before entering the chamber. If the Tactical Officer was aware of her presence, he gave no signs of it.

With careful precision, she placed the hypo against the Tactical Officer’s neck and emptied the injector. Withdrawing the hypo, she stepped back and studied the displays. After several moments, those that could track the existence and position of the nanite registered its presence. It had been delivered into the Tactical Officer’s bloodstream as expected. Hope noted a very slight change to one of the brain wave patterns.

Pain.

She made a note to check the reading again when she returned to her desk, but for now assumed that he had experienced some sensation from the hypo. The brain wave had returned to normal within a few seconds afterward.

Hope turned and exited the isolation bay, discarding the used hypo in the biological waste recycling slot. Once the hatch sealed itself fully behind her, she opened the outer door and returned to her desk.

When she reached the main chamber of the Infirmary, she found Lieutenant Ramsey still tending to Engineer Owens and Security Ensign Bayer. Her posture and demeanor had not changed, telling Hope without asking that there had been no change in the condition of either one. She activated a window to which the nanite’s readings would be displayed. By her calculations, it had not yet reached the site in the Tactical Officer’s brain in which she was most interested.

She chose to use one of the displays within the console’s surface rather than the larger one that floated above it. It might draw Lieutenant Ramsey’s attention and Hope did not want to explain the strange confidentiality around the Tactical Officer’s condition.

Data began to stream along the display window. The information that it provided so far closely matched the other biochemical readings that Hope had collected from the Tactical Officer. She activated another display to track the position of the nanite. She increased the magnification of the image, wanting to know its exact position within the Tactical Officer’s brain. Below that image, she brought up programming controls for the nanite in case she needed to alter its position or acquire additional readings.

It was making slower progress now, as there was less blood flow to that region of the Tactical Officer’s brain, so therefore less pressure to propel it automatically to its position. It possessed some motive abilities of its own, but using them, Hope knew, would decrease the nanite’s effective lifespan. Even with all of the advances in engineering and technology, it was possible to pack only so much energy within such a small volume.

As the nanite moved closer to its programmed position, Hope opened another window to display the visual data that it captured. Using the medical imaging system, these could be composited into a more complete three-dimensional image of the area. The nanite made its way closer to the shaded section. Hope adjusted the visual gain, hoping to get additional clarity on the images that it was sending back. The computer could enhance the computer to some degree, but remained at the mercy of the amount of data that the microscopic device could capture and transmit. It was all about power, Hope knew. At that scale, it was a constant balance between the amount of available power and functionality.

At the microscopic level at which the nanite operated, the normally smooth folds of the brain were lost. Instead, the cellular structures of the neurons and connective cells could be seen. They all had a distinctive, organic aesthetic to them—curves and rounded edges, thin filaments, and the thick, viscous motion of the supporting fluids.

There!

Hope instructed the nanite to stop. Its movement on the display slowed, but did not cease entirely. It would still yield to the pressures of the fluids around it unless instructed to adjust for these. Hope magnified the area on the display, capturing the images to a separate log. There was no doubt in her mind. This object was sharp and angular, clearly not of natural organic origin.

She studied it closely, trying to see past the indistinct details provided by the nanites visual feed. It was clearly an artificial foreign body. She considered the ways in which it could have become accidentally embedded there, but could think of none that would not have left other traces of trauma to the brain tissue either surrounding it or on its path to that location. That left only one other realistic hypothesis.

Surgery.

It had been implanted there deliberately, for some purpose she could not immediately determine. Accessing the medical library, she reviewed the areas of the brain that were adjacent to the implant, particularly those into which the trailing filaments penetrated. The research that she consulted contradicted itself widely on the details, but much of it agreed that one of the affected segments was involved in emotional control. There was less agreement on the others, but the most common theories indicated vision acuity for one and muscular control for another. The latter had more detailed research available, as it had been studied extensively during the time period of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries on Earth as a means toward developing possible treatments for several degenerative neurological diseases before the discovery of neurogenic therapies.

Hope instructed to take closer images of the artificial construct, overriding its power control settings to achieve the best resolution possible. She knew this meant that the nanite would survive only a few more minutes its power ran out and it dissolved into inert matter. Still, she had what she needed now. It was enough for her to make further inquiries into other possible causes and treatments for the Tactical Officer.

The display from nanite’s visual feed suddenly fuzzed to gray. Hope checked the other telemetry, but it all went blank a moment later. She checked the chronometer on the console. By her calculations, the nanite should have had nearly two more minutes of power remaining. In addition, it had never transmitted a warning that its power was running low. She was tempted to dismiss it as an unfortunate, albeit annoying, malfunction. Instead, she logged a note to herself to check the final images and biochemical readings of the area during the seconds immediately before the nanite stopped transmitting.

She looked up from the console to check the diagnostic readings of the Tactical Officer. A few of his brain waves showed a slight, almost imperceptible, increase at about the moment that the nanite ceased to function. Were it not for the other oddities in the Tactical Officer’s condition, she might have dismissed it as irrelevant. This time, though, she noted it for further evaluation in her medical log.

Picking up her tablet, she transferred a copy the new data to it. She would have, it turned out, something of real interest to report to the Captain.

#

He remained in this world of white drifting haze, unable to move, unable to explore it—to determine what lie both within and beyond the mist. The shadows had all but vanished, occurring now with such infrequent regularity that he could not be certain that he imagined them.

Sensory deprivation training had been like this, he remembered—and yet not. Then, there had been only darkness and no sounds other than those that came from within his own body. This was not like that. Here, he felt and he saw, even if his surroundings consisted only of unseen boundaries of shifting brightness.

How do I know this?

It was the first time that he had remembered something other than the cave and then the intruders that he had fought before they had defeated him and brought him here.

Here. Where was here? What was here?

He knew no better now than he had before.

A bright flash in one section of the sky (?) caught his attention. It flared briefly, like a torch suddenly come to light, but then faded quickly. Within moments, he could not even before sure where he had seen it—if it had existed at all.

He waited once more, wondering, if his captors had questions for him, why they did not ask. He suspected that he should be growing hungry, for he was certain that many hours had passed. But nether needs for sustenance or elimination troubled him. It made him wonder once more if this was some kind of death.

If not, he thought. It seems much more like madness.

- 8 -

Devereux strode down the corridor, feeling suddenly tired. Although she had rested, under Hope’s close supervision, for nearly twenty-four hours, she had not really slept much. She was not sure how much was from her concern over Hawkes’ strange behavior and the resulting injuries to her crew, or the voice in the back of her mind that kept whispering that she should not fall asleep while suffering from a concussion. Although the latter had been generally proven to have no medical basis, except in very extreme cases, some myths died hard. She had managed to convince Hope not to sedate her; now she wondered if that might not have been a mistake.

Just a few more hours, she told herself.

As she entered the shaft, she considered stopping by the galley for a cappuccino, hoping the caffeine might carry her over until the end of her shift. She was wary, though. Despite the mild analgesic that Hope had given her, Devereux’s head still throbbed slightly, sending her occasional reminders that she was fully recovered. The caffeine, she feared, might trigger a full-on migraine. That was the last thing she wanted right now.

By the time she had decided that maybe some safer, like fruit juice, might help, she had passed the galley’s level. Although it was not that far for her to go back, it did not feel worth the effort.

She was the first to enter the conference room. Not entirely surprised by that, as she was nearly ten minutes early, she walked around the compartment and placed her tablet down at her usual place at the end of the table, the one that faced the hatchway. She stood for a moment, staring out the series of rounded rectangular portholes along the starboard bulkhead that looked out into space. From this vantage point, it appeared as though they were not moving, but were instead beached on some cosmic sandbar.

You’re getting poetic again, Christine.

She smiled softly, remembering the awful poems that she had written during her second year in middle school. She had not recognized them as terrible then, enough so that she had even submitted more than three dozen of them for publication. After about the tenth rejection message or so, she finally reached the conclusion that perhaps she needed to seek other creative outlets.

At the sound of footfalls against the deck, she turned to see Elizabeth enter. Her young First Officer looked decidedly serious, even given the current situation.

Better check in with her later.

She flashed Elizabeth with what she hoped was a reassuring smile and gestured her toward the chair to her right. Elizabeth gave her a tentative smile in return and assumed her seat, studying the display on her tablet. Devereux frowned slightly, but was interrupted by the Rusty’s entrance before she could say anything.

“Cap’n!” The Chief Engineer seemed genuinely pleased to see her. “Good to see you back on your feet.”

As Rusty made his way to the chair beside Elizabeth, Devereux waited for the sardonic barb that would normally follow. After the Chief Engineer dropped into his chair, prodded Elizabeth with a grin, and then settled back, Devereux realized that it was not coming. She tried not to react with surprise, but it was a clear sign that things had changed with Chief Engineer since his return to the Fleet. He was still boisterous, occasionally abrasive, and extremely protective of his staff, but he seemed a lot less eager and willing to cross that line into true insubordination. Devereux sometimes wondered whether that was a wholly a positive change in the man.

Hope appeared at the hatchway, moving almost silently as she entered the chamber. Although the changes were subtle, Devereux could tell that the Aerian had gotten some much-needed rest after far too many hours in surgery repairing the damage that Hawkes had done to her crew. It was hard to fault Hope, and the results had clearly been worth the heroic effort, as every one of them was expected to fully recover, even if that meant more time for some of them than others.

Devereux watched while Hope took the seat to her left. Even then, she waited, until realizing why. Her Tactical Officer would not be appearing in the hatchway any time soon.

At least not for this meeting.

Her lips drew into a tight line and she walked over to her chair, but did not sit down. Instead, she rested her hands along its back and leaned forward slightly.

“I think you all know why we’re here,” she said, surveying the faces of those seated around the table. “The question,” she went on, “is why.”

No one spoke. Their expressions, though, grew even more somber. Devereux could sympathize. The situation was one that she never would have imagined finding herself in.

Hawkes gone rogue?

The odds were better, she thought, of Hope suddenly breaking into a hearty belly laugh at one of Rusty’s bad jokes.

“Okay,” Devereux said, taking a slow breath. “Let’s start with you, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth swallowed hard and then looked straight at Devereux.

“There’s not much we don’t already know, Captain,” she said. “Lieutenant Hawkes assumed command of third shift as scheduled, made several routine log entries, and then, about zero six hundred, locked out the command codes and left the bridge.”

Elizabeth tapped some controls on her pad and the display above the table flickered into brightness. It showed the information that she had just verbally presented.

“The Security logs,” she continued, tapping another control, adding a window with a video feed to the floating display, “show that he went directly from the bridge to Cargo Bay One.”

The video feed showed them the same recording that they had seen before of Hawkes arriving at the cargo bay and opening its hatch.

“He went inside,” Elizabeth went on. “Deactivated the internal security systems and jammed the hatch.”

The video feed went dark.

Elizabeth sighed, although Devereux noted that she tried to suppress it.

“The only thing we have now that we didn’t before is a timeline,” she tapped a control on her tablet again.

The now-blank video feed was replaced by a series of time entries. Everyone else around the table, including Devereux, studied them closely.

“Near the end of the shift,” Devereux murmured. Then, aloud, she asked, “Did anything else happen around that time?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Nothing,” she replied. Frustration tinged the edges of her voice. “No communications. No power surges. No unexplained radiation. Not even anything unusual outside the ship.”

Rusty drummed his fingers lightly against the table. Devereux turned to him, realizing that he had been doing it for several seconds.

“Something on your mind, Chief?”

Rusty looked back at her. “It just doesn’t make any sense.”

“I’d have to agree with that,” Devereux said drily.

“Why Cargo One?” Rusty asked.

It was a question that Devereux had pondered herself several times.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’ve run the cargo manifest,” she went on. “And there’s nothing unusual in any of it.”

“I know,” Rusty replied. “I’ve looked at it.” His expression revealed a sudden realization. “Was anything missing?”

Devereux looked toward Elizabeth, who shook her head.

“There couldn’t have been,” Elizabeth said. “They carried him out on a medical cart. He couldn’t have taken anything with him.”

Devereux looked thoughtful. “No,” she said finally. “But he could have moved it.” Looking back at Elizabeth, she said, “Have Chop verify the inventory of Cargo Bay One against the manifest. Then,” she went on, “have them inspect every container to see whether it’s been opened or tampered with.”

Elizabeth’s expression told her the kind of reaction that she expected to get from the Logistics Officer for such an order.

“Feel free to remind him that it’s not a suggestion,” Devereux added.

This prompted brief smiles from both Elizabeth and the Chief Engineer.

Devereux continued to look at Elizabeth. “You said there were no communications?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“I assume you mean from outside the ship.”

“That’s right.”

Devereux looked down at her tablet thoughtfully. “I want a full log of any messages that the Lieutenant received during his shift that night, whether they were personal or not.”

Elizabeth and Rusty exchanged a glance that carried of a mixture of disbelief and uncertain amusement. Devereux understood how they felt. She, too, found it difficult that their Tactical Officer would have received personal messages of any type, much less read them while on duty.

“Yes, Captain,” Elizabeth said, entering the request into her tablet.

Devereux turned toward her Medical Officer. “Hope,” she said. “You’ve been awfully quiet.” Not like that’s all that unusual. “Do you have anything for us?”

Hope did not hesitate before she answered.

“Yes.”

The room suddenly got very quiet. Devereux felt a faint chill and the hair on the back of her neck prickled.

“I think you have our attention,” Devereux prompted her.

“Commander.”

Elizabeth looked surprised at being addressed by Hope, and then seemed to realize what the Aerian Medical Officer was requesting. She reached down and cleared the overhead display.

With quick, deft motions, Hope worked the controls of the table in front on her. The holographic display shimmered into view again, separated into three distinct sections.

“All life and chemical readings are within expected ranges.”

Devereux looked at the first panel before her. It displayed a collection of biochemical and physical data from Lieutenant Hawkes. Some of it she could follow; most of it she could not.

“Scans and records show small shadow on brain.”

The middle section of the display showed a three-dimensional image of a human brain. Without reading all of identifying codes, Devereux assumed that it belonged to Hawkes.

“This is the shadow.”

The rightmost segment showed the extreme magnification of what appeared to be a tiny implant. Fine wires extruded from it at several points, penetrating the tissue around it.

“Son of a bitch,” Rusty whispered.

Devereux turned to him sharply. “Do you know what it is?”

“Not a clue,” he admitted admiringly. “But it’s damned fine piece of engineering.”

Devereux looked at Elizabeth, but her expression conveyed no recognition of the device. Her gaze returned to Hope.

“Do you?”

Hope hesitated a moment before answering.

“No.”

“So you have no idea what it does?”

“No.”

“That’s the emotion center of the brain, isn’t it?” Elizabeth interrupted.

Hope’s eyes turned toward the First Officer.

“Yes.”

I guess that explains a few things.

Devereux looked toward Rusty, fully expecting him to issue a similarly snide remark aloud. He surprised her by appearing deeply interested.

“Looks to me like someone’s trying to turn our old man into some kind of robot.” He said it without rancor or humor.

“How long has it been in there?” Devereux asked Hope.

“I do not know. All Fleet records contain it.”

“So it’s been there for a while.”

“Yes.”

“Does it say why it was implanted?”

“No.”

“Does it say when?”

“No.”

Devereux stood and studied the image of implant more closely. As if sensing her next question, Hope spoke.

“It is not mentioned.”

Devereux turned to Hope in surprise. “But you said—”

“The shadow shows. The device is not mentioned.”

Devereux stared at the dark eyes of her Medical Officer and then back at the floating image.

“Can we find out what it does?”

“Not without cutting open his skull and scooping it out of his brain,” Rusty interjected.

Devereux shot him a quick look, but then relented when she saw that he was serious.

“Can we access its programming?” She asked, and then quickly added before the Chief Engineer could respond, “Remotely?”

“I do not know.”

Devereux turned toward Rusty. The Chief Engineer shrugged.

“I have no idea, Cap’n,” he told her, his eyes turning back toward the hovering image. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Devereux’s gaze swept across the entire display. “See what you want find out,” she told him. “There must be something else like it out there . . . used for other purposes.”

“Not exactly my field, Cap’n—”

“Work with Hope,” Devereux cut him off abruptly. She turned toward Hope. “Is he in any danger?”

Hope checked her tablet before responding.

“He remains stable.”

Devereux studied the image of the implant. “Well,” she mused quietly. “Isn’t that interesting?”

Emerald Flight: “Human Factors” (continued)

She tugged at the tunic of her hospital tunic, momentarily conscious of how it did not quite hang quite low enough. Not that accidentally displaying her navel was all that revealing, but it still bothered her how her breasts snagged it upward.

“I can go back to duty?” she asked, turning back to Hope.

Hope’s head turned up from Owens to look at her.

“Yes.”

“No restrictions?”

Hope studied her for a moment.

“Return if there is pain.”

Devereux flashed Hope a quick smile. “I will,” she said. “I promise.”

Like hell.

She knew, though, that she would return if it grew bad enough. Concussions, however mild, were not something to be trifled with. She had seen more than one of her teammates suddenly drop many minutes after receiving a blow to the head, even if they claimed that they were all right. One of them, she remembered, had died. Another had suffered permanent damage, prone to sudden public outbursts of emotion that only powerful medications could control.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” Devereux told Hope. “I want to know what you’ve found out about Lieutenant Hawkes.”

“Yes.”

Hope did not appear surprised at her request.

But then, Devereux mused, Hope rarely looked surprised.

Gathering the tablet that she had borrowed from Ramsey, Devereux gathered the small container that contained her uniform and other belongings and headed for the main hatch. Before she exited, she turned and looked back once more at Bayer and Owens, reminding herself to add special commendations to their service records.

Feeling relieved, yet also more somber, she headed for her quarters.

#

Elizabeth glanced down at her tablet when an update to the active duty roster was posted. She smiled. The Captain had been released from the Infirmary. Although it meant that she was longer in command, Elizabeth felt elated by this. Daydreams aside, she was more than willing, for now at least, to let the Captain make the big decisions.

Not that I really had to make any . . .

Looking toward the command deck, she saw the command console still disassembled and in pieces strewn across the deck. Even if it still was not working, she did not want the Captain to return to the bridge with it looking like that. Instead of using her comm unit, she accessed the function on her tablet, instructing it to contact Main Engineering.

Aruna’s face was framed in the small window. If she seemed startled, she managed to hide it well.

“Commander.”

Elizabeth’s eyes surveyed the background behind the assistant Engineer. “Where’s the Chief?”

Aruna’s head turned from side to side as she looked around her. “I don’t know, Commander,” she said, clearly embarrassed. “He was here a few minutes ago.”

Elizabeth frowned. She saw concern flicker in Aruna’s eyes and realized that the assistant Engineer was reacting to change in demeanor from a higher-ranking officer.

Need to remember that.

Elizabeth softened her expression. A subtle, but immediate, change was reflected in Aruna’s face.

“I really didn’t need to speak to him,” she said, hoping that it did not come out sounding as bad as it did to her ears. She took a quick breath to steady herself. “Someone left the command console in pieces up here,” she explained, knowing that both she and Aruna understood who “someone” was. “Can you send someone up here to put it back together before the Captain shows up?”

“Right away, Commander,” Aruna replied, sounding much more like the confident engineer now.

Elizabeth gave her a grateful smile. “Thanks, Aruna,” she said. “Bridge out.” She tapped the window and it disappeared, closing the communications channel.

She quickly surveyed the bridge. Everything else appeared to be in order. She resisted the urge to ask Pyrafox, once again, what their flight status was. If anything had gone wrong, he would have immediately called it to her attention.

Her eyes came to a stop at the Tactical station. One of the members of the Security team, Sykes, sat there. He was capable, Elizabeth knew, but lacked the calm sense of confidence and control that Hawkes always conveyed. Sykes, she remembered, had a tendency to shout.

I didn’t realize how much I’d miss him.

“No, stupid,” she whispered to herself. “He’s not gone.”

Glancing around guiltily, she wondered if anyone had overheard her. If any of the crew members present on the bridge had, they showed no signs of it.

She was saved from further introspection by the arrival of the Engineering team that Aruna had promised. They paused just inside the hatchway, looking toward Elizabeth for direction. She motioned them toward the command deck.

“See if you can at least put it back together,” she told them. “Back together and working would be even better.”

The trio exchanged uncertain glances. Elizabeth was tempted to scale back her expectations, but then decided to let them give it their best effort.

Who knows? she told herself. They might find something that the Chief missed.

That was unlikely, she knew, but from her own experience she knew that sometimes junior engineers, with only the most basic notion of what they were doing, sometimes stumbled on techniques that the original designers never envisioned. They results were not always positive. Fortunately, they were also frequently not fatal either.

The team pushed their equipment cart toward the command deck and then up its ramp. It took Elizabeth considerable effort not to join them and supervise the repairs herself. Even while it gnawed at her to not do so, she knew that the Captain would not approve. She winced when one of the first things that one of engineers did was to knock one of the heavier tools off the cart. It collided with several of the discarded pieces of the console, scattering them across the deck. The lead team member looked apologetically at Elizabeth; the rest conspicuously did not look up from their work.

Elizabeth read over the security reports again, something she had already done at least three times before. She wanted to look busy when the Captain arrived, and be prepared with her own report on the ship’s status, should be Captain request it. After several minutes, though, she realized that the Captain would probably not come directly to the bridge from the Infirmary.

Unless there was some kind of emergency, I probably wouldn’t either. She remembered her own last stay in the Infirmary. No probably about it.

She looked toward the command deck, checking on the progress of the Engineering team. There appeared to be fewer pieces on the deck, although Elizabeth wondered whether that was just because they had gathered them up into fewer piles. Looking away before she was further tempted to say something to them, she contented herself with consulting the bridge duty roster for the upcoming three shifts.

It was a long time before Devereux stepped through the hatchway and onto the bridge. Nearly an hour had passed since Elizabeth had received the notification that the Captain had been released back to active duty. She had nearly run out of useful things to do. It was not, she knew, that there was nothing else that she needed to do—for there was always something that needed to be monitored, fixed, or reported on aboard a starship—but most of the items remaining where of the tedious and bureaucratic type.

Whoever said that a fleet travels on its paperwork knew what they were saying.

Devereux strode over to Elizabeth, giving her a warm, if slightly weak, smile.

“Are we still in one piece, Commander?”

Elizabeth’s eyes darted in the direction of the command deck. She struggled not to react.

“Nearly, Captain,” she admitted. She quickly eyed the Captain and added, “And apparently you are too?”

Devereux chuckled. “I think Hope just ran out of tests to run.”

Elizabeth smiled and laughed softly herself. “Glad to have you back, Captain.”

Devereux nodded, looking away from Elizabeth and across the interior of the bridge. “The burden of command getting a little heavy?”

Elizabeth had trouble answering. She fumbled through several responses in her mind, none of which seemed right. Some of them, she decided, were far too flippant, sounding like had come from the Chief.

Devereux turned back to her with a gentle smile. “Don’t worry,” she told Elizabeth. “It doesn’t get any easier.”

#

Rusty checked the shift’s planned work log against the duty roster and made a few adjustments.

Gogorsky’s better at sensor maintenance . . . Ortiz can handle the junction at Fourteen-Beta-Fifteen . . . the starboard thrusters can wait until Sanderson comes on at second shift . . .

Aruna had tried her best to fill the gaps left by Choy and Owens. With the latter off the list entirely for the next few weeks, it was going to be an ongoing challenging to keep some of the heavier jobs staffed.

Maybe the Ol’ Fossil can . . .

He trailed off, suddenly remembering. His mouth formed a grim line.

“Not a word . . .” he murmured.

He had received full reports on each of the injured crew members, either directly or through less official channels of communication. But he had heard nothing about the Tactical Officer, except from whatever he already knew first-hand.

He’s in isolation in the Infirmary. They’re running tests.

It sounded more like he had contracted some exotic virus rather than that he had brutally attacked several crew members and then tried to take the Captain apart.

On the latter part he had received some good news. Other than for a collection of bruises, she had suffered a small concussion, but Hope had released her back to duty after keeping her in the Infirmary overnight for observation. That, for him, was a sign of just how over the edge Hawkes had gone. He had not been there to witness it, but Rusty had seen the Captain fight for her life before. That Hawkes had managed to almost take her down said a lot.

“Chief?”

Aruna’s voice broke him out of his reverie. He turned to look at her.

“Is everything all right, Chief?”

Except that our Tactical Officer tried to take out half the crew? Just peachy.

He worked up a smile, but knew that it did not convince her. “Sure,” he told her, holding out the tablet. “You did work on the duty roster. I made just a few changes.”

Aruna accepted the tablet and looked down at it.

“Thank you.”

Her voice was soft and quiet. He could tell that neither of them was handling this moment well.

“Look,” he said. “I want an inspection of the starboard core while we’re in orbit. Can you handle that? Take whatever crew you need.”

Aruna brightened immediately, although with some hesitation at first.

“Just me?”

“Sure,” he agreed. His smile was more genuinely warm now. “You don’t need me watching your move.”

She said nothing, but he could see that she was pleased.

“If you don’t want to,” he went on, taking on a lighter tone. “There are lots of recycling conduits that need flushed and scrubbed.”

Aruna’s dark features wrinkled into a wince. “I’d rather not, Chief.”

“Then I guess you’re stuck with the starboard core.”

“I guess so, sir . . . Chief.”

“Now get back to it,” he told her, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the main Engineering Deck.

“Yes, Chief.” She smiled happily before turning and heading away.

Neither of the slipstream cores was due for any kind of maintenance for some time yet. It would not harm anything, he knew, to do it a little early. The light bounce in Aruna’s step told him that he had done the right thing. It did not, though, help him shake off the strange sense of, well, not quite foreboding that had plagued him since the scuffle in the cargo bay.

That just doesn’t seem like our calm, cool, and collected TO . . . at all.

In his mind, Rusty played back what he knew. Hawkes had locked out everyone else’s command codes, wandered off the bridge without a word to anyone, and then had taken refuge in the cargo bay after trying to make sure that no one else could get. None of it made sense.

Rusty wondered why the Captain had not called her officers together to discuss the situation. Then he remembered that Hope had probably refused to let her hold it in the Infirmary.

Now that the Cap’n’s out though . . .

He looked around, trying to find someone who did not look busy. The Main Engineering Deck was mostly deserted, though, as almost all of the engineers and technicians had gone off on their various assignments throughout the ship. Those remaining were either monitoring core systems or providing remote assistance to other engineers.

Guess I’ll have to do it myself.

He missed that about having Elizabeth working in his department. She was a whiz at putting together the reports that he needed for the Captain.

And so where that go her . . . First Officer.

Rusty still felt a small glow of pride at that. The young woman had deserved the promotion. Had Devereux not decided to return to the Fleet, though, he wondered what might have become of young lieutenant. She had shared some of her experiences on the Washington. Had she remained there, she might either have resigned her commission or been forced out.

Freidlin’d better hope he never runs into me in a dark alley. Dresden either.

Dresden, he knew, got mixed reviews from others who had served under him in the Fleet. If you wanted by-the-book regulations and strict discipline—of the Captain Bligh variety, Rusty mused sourly—then that was the place to be. Freidlin, though, was a bully—of the sneaky, back-stabbing kind. Rusty had run into his kind many times, but just not typically among members of the Fleet. It was probably only on the Washington that he could get away that kind of thuggery. On almost any other ship, he would been invited into an airlock without an EVA suit.

He’d not last a day here, Rusty decided. Two at the most.

So far, their paths had not crossed.

Lucky for him.

Rusty grabbed an abandoned tablet from a nearby station and wiped it. Taking one last look around, he began compiling his report.

#

Hope stood before the panel that provided a view into the isolation bay. Readouts flowed across its transparent surface. They would incomprehensible to anyone else, not solely due to their highly specialized nature, but also because she had told the computer to translate them into Aerian symbols and measurements. Not that it mattered, she decided, for they revealed little more to her in own language than they had in the common language of the Humans.

“Hope.”

Lieutenant Ramsey approached from behind her. Hope did not turn. Lieutenant stopped to stand beside her.

“Anything new?”

Hope paused a moment before answering.

“No.”

Lieutenant Ramsey stared through the window next to Hope. “He seems stable.”

“Yes. That is an accurate assessment.”

Lieutenant Ramsey’s expression and posture revealed that she was pleased by the praise. Hope continued to stare at Hawkes’ still form.

The Tactical Officer’s physical injuries were healing as expected. Compared to the Crew and Captain, he had not suffered many of them. All of his biochemical readings fell within Human norms. While they differed slightly from previous readings she had stored for the Tactical Officer, none of them deviated from them sufficiently enough to provide her with conclusive data that they might be cause of his sudden change in behavior.

His brain functions were unusually active for a Human under the level of sedation to which he was currently being maintained. He had nearly become aware and conscious twice. She had already adjusted the dosage twice, but his resistance to it did not appear to be biochemical. Those readings remained consistent with what she would normally expect from a Human undergoing such treatment.

The atypically high brain activity was perhaps the most promising area of research for her to pursue into his condition, she had decided. She had located reports of Humans being unusually resistant to sedation and anesthesia, but those findings proved to be of little use to her, for they were all the result of biochemical factors.

“What do you think it is?” Lieutenant Ramsey asked her.

“His mind.”

Hope spoke without meaning to. Lieutenant Ramsey turned toward her with a puzzled expression.

“What do you mean?”

Hope was saved from explaining by a chime from her comm unit. She checked her tablet and saw that the Captain had requested a meeting of her senior officers in twenty-two minutes.

“The Captain?” Lieutenant Ramsey asked her.

“Yes.”

Lieutenant Ramsey nodded and, without waiting for Hope’s explanation to her previous question, returned to the main recovery bay.

Hope began assembling all of the information that she might need should the Captain request it. In addition to the data on the Tactical Officer’s current condition, she also included all of the information regarding the injuries, surgeries, and recovery of the others who had been injured when attacked by the Tactical Officer. She quickly transferred the latest set of data from the systems monitoring the Tactical Officer and returned to the Infirmary’s main compartment.