Draft 2

Month 3: The Dead Zone

The engineering workshop felt like the bottom of a murky ocean. Helen sat at her workbench, fighting the chemical blanket of Janet’s synthetic sedatives. She gripped a pair of micro-tweezers, trying to align a microscopic copper gear inside Unit Seven’s chassis.

She blinked, trying to clear the haze from her eyes. Magnus’s backhand in the mess hall had cracked the drone’s outer shell and dislodged his primary logic board.

Helen pinched the gear into place, applied a tiny drop of conductive adhesive, and reached for her micro-soldering iron.

She tapped the iron against the connection, then snapped Seven’s dented casing shut.

“Come on, little guy.” She pressed the reboot switch on his underbelly.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, Seven’s optic pulsed irregularly. It flashed white, then dimmed to gray, until settling into a steady blue. His legs twitched and his rotors spun up, lifting him a few inches off the workbench before he dropped back down, hitting the metal with a clink.

“System reboot . . . partially successful,” Seven vibrated. “Madam, I have experienced a blunt force trauma resulting in a forty-two percent loss of motor function and a severe degradation of my dignity.”

“I’m sorry, Seven. Magnus lost his mind.”

“I calculate a ninety-nine percent probability that Mr. Cantarini is an evolutionary dead end.” Seven’s blue optic stuttered. “My gyroscopes are misaligned. The room is currently tilted at a fourteen-degree angle. Please hold onto a stationary object.”

“The room is level, Seven.”

“I dispute that claim.” Seven’s rotors whined again, and he managed to hover at her eye level, though he listed noticeably to the left. “Madam, my memory core is fragmented, but I must reiterate a priority alert. Atmospheric sensors detect . . . uncatalogued botanical particulate. Severe neuro-tox . . .”

Seven’s optic flashed red. A burst of static erupted from his speaker, loud enough to make Helen wince. “Seven?”

The drone’s eye returned to a dim blue. “Error. Logic board misalignment. Would you like to hear today’s lunch menu? It is synthetic beef stew.”

Helen didn’t have the mental capacity to parse out a software glitch right now. “Magnus really scrambled you. We’ll run a full diagnostic later. Just stick to my shoulder for now.”

Seven obediently floated over and clamped his legs onto the strap of her tank top. Helen stood up. She needed to see John. The memory of her husband pinning Magnus to the bulkhead, his forearm crushing the mechanic’s windpipe, looped through her mind. She needed reassurance that the violence was just a momentary lapse caused by the heat and corporate pressure.

She left Engineering and navigated the humid corridors. The Persephone groaned around her; the slip-drive’s low frequency seemed to vibrate more than usual.

Helen reached the bridge. She didn’t bother checking the comms panel; she just hit the door release. The blast doors hissed open.

Helen stepped inside, interrupting a hushed conversation. John and Ingrid were standing by the primary navigation console, incredibly close. Ingrid leaned in, her hand resting on the edge of John’s terminal.

The moment the doors parted, they snapped apart. Ingrid quickly turned her attention to a blank monitor. John spun around, his hand dropping away from the console.

“What is it, Helen?” John asked.

John looked terrible. His uniform was soaked with sweat, and his eyes were bloodshot like Magnus’s. Helen stopped in the center of the room. “I wanted to check on you. After the mess hall.”

“I handled the mess hall.”

“You choked him, John. You nearly crushed his throat. Magnus was just acting out, he wasn’t trying to—”

“Magnus was a threat to this ship!” John took a step toward her. The hostility in his face made Helen instinctively step back. “He assaulted a senior officer. He destroyed equipment. I am the Captain. I am the only thing keeping this crew from tearing each other apart, and I will not be questioned on my own bridge.”

“I’m not questioning your authority. I’m worried about you.”

“You should be worried about yourself.”

Helen looked past John. Ingrid was watching her with aloof condescension. The navigator crossed her arms.

“Look at your eyes, Mitchell,” Ingrid said, her tone dripping with pity. “You can barely stand up straight. You’re a liability to the grid right now. Go back to your quarters and sleep off whatever Janet pumped into you.”

Helen looked from Ingrid back to John. She waited for him to defend her and tell his First Officer to back off.

John just turned back to the viewport. “Do what she says. I need absolute focus up here.”

The united front between the two of them was impenetrable. Helen just turned and walked out. The sedative kept her from fully breaking down.

“Chief Mitchell.”

Helen stopped. Claude stood near the entrance to the auxiliary supply locker. While the rest of the ship was sweating and fighting, the Chief Science Officer looked like he had just stepped out of an air-conditioned room.

“What do you want?”

“I simply wanted to see how you were faring. The Captain’s outburst in the mess hall was . . . deeply disturbing. I cannot imagine how difficult it must be for you to witness him in such a state.”

Helen forced a smile. “I appreciate the concern, but we’re doing fine; it’s just the heat making everyone irritable.”

“Of course. Forgive me. I only mention it because he’s clearly cracking under an immense burden. The pressure of command makes people secretive.”

“What are you talking about?”

Claude looked around as if to ensure they were alone. “I happened to see the Captain pacing near the aft airlocks yesterday. He was speaking into a non-standard burner comm-link. He looked quite frantic. I assumed he was dealing with corporate executives off the books, perhaps arranging a separate payout. But given his recent aggression . . . and his constant isolation with XO Mills . . . well. I merely worry for your safety.”

Claude smiled sadly, then walked past her toward the science lab.

Helen stood frozen in the heat. A burner comm-link? He’s lying, she told herself. Kinskey is just trying to get under my skin.

But the seed was planted. She headed to the captain’s quarters, needing a mundane task to keep her mind from spinning. She went to the corner and gathered John’s laundry. His sweat-soaked uniform shirts and trousers lay in a heap on the deck. She scooped them up, intending to run them through the room’s laundry recycler.

A heavy object slid out of a pocket and hit the floor. She dropped the laundry and slowly knelt. Resting on the floor was a black piece of hardware. It had no Omni-Corp logo and no standard serial numbers. It was a burner comm-link. Claude was right.

Helen picked it up. John was using an unauthorized device. He was having secret conversations with someone. Was it Ingrid? Were they plotting something behind her back?

Helen finds a secret comm-link.