Page 13 of Starlight, Starbright
I squeeze deeper into the Jefferies tube, scanner in one hand, flashlight in the other. The metal ridges press into my knees through my uniform, and the air tastes stale back here. Recycled through too many filters, not quite fresh. The tube is barely wide enough for me to crawl through, my shoulders brushing both sides.
Something's wrong. The pump failure triggered an alarm two minutes ago, but pumps don't just stop. They degrade gradually, throw error codes, give warning signs. This one went from operational to dead in under a second.
I reach the pump housing and angle my flashlight. The casing looks intact. No visible damage. I run my scanner over the connections. Power flow shows normal to the junction box, then drops to zero at the pump itself.
That doesn't make sense.
I follow the conduit back toward the power junction. Three meters. Five. The tube gets narrower here, forcing me onto my stomach. I army-crawl forward, the metal cold against mybody even through my uniform. My flashlight beam catches something ahead.
A gap in the conduit.
I move closer, scanner forgotten. The conduit has been severed. Not broken or worn through. Cut. The edges are too clean, too precise. I run my finger along the edge and pull back fast. Sharp. Still hot.
Plasma torch. 3000-degree cut. Clean. Professional. Someone who knew exactly where to strike.
My hands start shaking. I have to grip my scanner twice to activate it, my fingers suddenly clumsy. The readout confirms what I already know. The cut severed the primary power feed to this entire section of life support. Backup systems compensated, but if someone hit those too...
Only seven people have access to plasma torches in Engineering. I trained five of them myself.
I take three images with my scanner, documenting the cut from different angles. Evidence. Proof. The kind Zoric said we needed. But holding it feels like holding a live grenade.
Someone from my team did this. Someone I work beside every day. Someone I've trusted with the lives of everyone on this ship.
I need to get out of this tube. Need air that doesn't taste like recycled fear. Need to show someone who'll understand what this means.
I don't remember making the decision to go to Zoric's office. I just know that ten minutes later, I'm standing at his door with the severed conduit section in my hands, my hand hovering over the chime, my mind blank on the simple procedure.
His office is dim except for the glow of his work screens. He looks up when the door opens, and I watch surprise cross his face. Then concern.
“Chief Martin.” He stands. “It's 0230 hours.”
“I know what time it is.” I step inside and let the door close behind me. “I found something.”
I place the conduit on his desk. The cut end catches the light from his screens, still faintly warm. He moves around to examine it, and I watch his expression shift from confusion to understanding to something harder.
“Life support conduit,” he says. Not a question.
“Section 7-Delta. Plasma torch, professional cut. Happened less than an hour ago.” I pull up the images on my tablet. “Backup systems compensated, but if they'd hit those too, we'd have lost environmental control to three hab-rings.”
He studies the images in silence. His markings shift as he processes.
“Seven people have plasma torch access. Burton and five of my crew. But Security has override access to Engineering equipment during emergencies—Hale's people could have taken one without it showing in our logs. The saboteur could be from my department or his. People I work with every day. People I'd trust with my life.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
“But you don't. Not anymore.”
“No.” The word comes out flat. “I don't know who to trust. Except...”
I stop. The admission feels too big. Too vulnerable. But standing here in his dim office at 0230 hours with evidence of attempted mass murder in my hands, I'm out of options.
“Except?” he prompts quietly.
“You.” I meet his eyes. “I trust you.”
His expression tells me he's feeling something he's trying not to show. He moves closer, studying the images on my tablet over my shoulder.
“This cut required knowledge of the life support grid,” he says. His voice is close enough that I feel the vibration of it.“Whoever did this knew which conduit to target for maximum effect.”
“Yeah.” I zoom in on the cut edge. “And they did it during gamma shift when Engineering is minimally staffed. Smart. Calculated.”
