Page 11 of Starlight, Starbright
“I should let you work.” But she doesn't move toward the door. “Unless you need help with the analysis?”
“Stay.” The word comes out more forcefully than I intend. I moderate my tone. “Please. Your insights are valuable. I would appreciate your assistance.”
She returns to her chair. Retrieves her tablet from her bag. “Then let's figure out who's trying to kill us.”
We work in companionable silence, broken only by occasional exchanges about data correlations and system vulnerabilities. She catches patterns in power distribution I wouldn't have noticed. I provide statistical verification for her intuitive leaps. Together, we construct a comprehensive profile of the saboteur's methods.
I've been tracking time—forty-seven minutes, then ninety-three, then one hundred forty-one—but I hadn't registered what it meant. That I wanted her here. That I didn't want her to leave.
“There.” She points to a correlation I've just calculated. “That's Burton's shift schedule. Every fluctuation occurs during his off-hours when he has access to the systems but no oversight.”
“Circumstantial.” But damning. “We need proof of physical access.”
“Security logs?”
“I'll request them from Hale.” I make the notation. “Discreetly.”
She nods, then checks her tablet. Her eyes widen slightly. “It's 1600 hours. I've been here for three and a half hours.”
“I apologize for monopolizing your time,” I say.
“You didn't. I wanted to be here.” She stands, gathering her things. Pauses. “This investigation is important, yes. But it's also...”
“What?”
“Nice. Working with someone who takes my concerns seriously. Who sees the patterns I see.” She meets my eyes again. “Thank you for believing me.”
The gratitude strikes me as illogical. “Your data was sound. Belief is irrelevant to mathematical proof.”
Her mouth curves upward. That genuine smile. “Most people don't work that way, Captain. They need to believe before they'll look at the proof.”
She leaves before I can formulate a response.
I sit in the aftermath of her presence. The workspace feels different now. Larger. Emptier. As though her absence creates a measurable void where she was.
This is concerning. Spaces do not change based on occupancy. Yet I cannot deny the sensory data my nervous system provides.
I drag my attention back to the investigation. Focus on the task. Ignore the lingering scent of lavender and the warmth her proximity generated.
The attempt is unsuccessful.
Seven hours later, my inability to maintain analytical focus becomes undeniable.
I pass through three decorated corridors on my way to the observation deck. Civilian volunteers have added more lights since yesterday, colored bulbs reflecting off metal surfaces. The persistence is illogical given our uncertain survival, but somehow admirable.
The observation deck is supposed to be empty at this hour. It is not.
Chief Martin stands at the viewport, her posture relaxed in a way I rarely observe during duty hours. The vast expanse of space spreads before her, stars streaming past as we travel through subspace. The deck maintains a cooler temperature than standard ship zones, optimized for the viewport's thermal requirements. She's wearing a jacket over her uniform.
I should retreat. Give her privacy. But my feet carry me forward instead.
“Chief Martin.”
She turns. Surprise flashes across her face before transforming into welcome. “Captain. I didn't expect anyone else to be here.”
“I often come here during gamma shift. The solitude aids reflection.” I move to stand beside her at the viewport, maintaining professional distance. “I apologize for intruding on your time.”
“You're not intruding.” She gestures at the stars. “There's enough universe for both of us.”
