Chapter 4 Zoric
ZORIC
This asteroid field has been charted for years. Three separate survey missions mapped it. We should have detected it with plenty of time to alter course. But the sensors were degraded precisely enough that we couldn't see it until we had less than two minutes to respond.
Chief Martin's pattern recognition proved correct. Even with her data, I hesitated to declare sabotage without more evidence. That caution had nearly cost us everything.
The calculation produces uncomfortable results I don't wish to examine.
My door chimes. “Enter.”
Chief Martin steps through carrying two cups. The familiar, rich scent of coffee preceding her. She sets one on the corner of my desk without asking permission, the ceramic making that soft sound against metal that I've heard once before. When she brought me coffee two days ago.
“Thought you might have been up all night too.” She settles into the chair across from me, cradling her own cup. Her hair is damp. She's showered recently. The faint scent of her soap reaches me even at this distance. “The data from the asteroid field is pretty damning.”
I accept the coffee. She remembered. The realization that she's been paying attention to such details produces an illogical sense of satisfaction.
“I've completed correlation analysis between the sensor failure and your documented fluctuation pattern. The statistical impossibility of coincidence confirms sabotage.”
“So we have proof.” She leans forward. “Enough to act on?”
“Enough to investigate more aggressively. Not yet enough to identify the perpetrator.” I pull up my analysis on the central display. “The saboteur has intimate knowledge of our systems, personnel schedules, and my command protocols. They predicted my response time to within acceptable margins.”
She studies the data streams, her dark eyes moving rapidly across the screens. “Show me the power routing during the fluctuation.”
I bring up the relevant diagrams. She rises and moves around my desk to view them more closely.
Her proximity is immediate—less than a meter.
I detect her scent profile more clearly.
The soap is something floral. Lavender, perhaps.
Beneath it, her natural scent, which I find pleasant for reasons I cannot adequately explain.
“There.” Her finger points at a specific junction. “That's the tertiary bypass. If you wanted to weaken shield generator three without triggering diagnostics, you'd reroute power through that coupling. It's old tech, barely monitored anymore.”
I examine the routing she's identified. “The power draw is within normal parameters.”
“But the timing isn't. Look.” She leans closer, near enough that her proximity makes me warmer.
When we both reach for the same data point on the screen, her fingers brush mine briefly.
“Every seventy-two hours, there's a microsecond spike right before the fluctuation.
Like someone's testing the response time.”
She's correct. I hadn't noticed the pattern because the spikes occur on a scale of milliseconds. Too brief for standard monitoring. But when compiled across three weeks of data, they create an unmistakable signature.
“This is excellent analysis.” I pull up additional screens to verify her finding. “You identified a pattern I missed.”
“You weren't looking at microseconds. I spend half my life chasing glitches that last less than a second.” She straightens, but doesn't move away. “We make a good team, Captain.”
The statement produces a response in my chest cavity that has no logical explanation. Pleasure, perhaps. Or satisfaction. Or something I lack proper terminology for.
“Yes.” The word emerges with more warmth than intended. “We do.”
Our eyes meet and I can’t look away.
She notices. Her face flushes. Then she steps back, breaking the moment.
“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.”
We stand in silence. Not uncomfortable, precisely, but charged with something I cannot quantify. The distant vibration of engines travels through the deck plates. The environmental systems create soft background noise. Beyond the viewport, stars blur into streams of light.
“My family had this tradition,” she says quietly. “Every December, we'd pick out the brightest star and make wishes. It was silly, but I loved it. Gave me something to look forward to during the darkest part of winter.”
“What did you wish for?” The question emerges before I can consider whether it's appropriate.
“Safety, mostly. For my parents, my brother, myself.” She wraps her arms around herself, though the temperature is slightly cool. “When I joined the Coalition, I started wishing to be good enough. Smart enough. To matter.”
The vulnerability in her voice creates an ache in my chest I cannot explain. “You matter significantly to this vessel's operations. Your technical expertise is exceptional.”
“That's not what I mean.” She turns to face me fully. “I mean mattering to people. Being more than just the person who fixes their problems.”
I process this statement, trying to understand the distinction she's making. “You matter beyond your professional capacity.”
“Do I?” She searches my face. “Or am I just a useful chief engineer?”
“You are both.” The words feel inadequate. I struggle to articulate what I'm experiencing. “Your technical competence is valuable. But your presence itself has become... significant. In ways I am not trained to categorize.”
She blushes. “What kind of ways?”
I should retreat to professional distance. Reference mission parameters. Redirect this conversation to safer territory. But standing here in the dim lighting with stars reflecting in her eyes, I find my discipline failing.
“I think about you when you're not present.
I notice details about you that serve no strategic purpose.
The way you move through your department.
The specific pattern of your laugh. How your voice changes when you're excited about a solution.” My markings brighten despite my best efforts.
“My markings respond to your proximity in ways I cannot fully control. This should not be occurring. Yet it does.”
Her breathing quickens. “Captain...”
“This is inappropriate.” I force the words out. “You are under my command. The Council would consider my responses evidence of compromised emotional control. I should not have said any of this.”
“Zoric.” My name, not my title. The sound of it in her voice produces unexpected neurochemical responses. “What if I want you to be inappropriate?”
The admission freezes my thoughts. When they resume, she's closer. I can see the specific amber striations in her eyes. The way her chest rises and falls with her breathing. The flush spreading across her face.
My markings flood with golden light before I can stop them.
“I should go.” But she doesn't move. “This is complicated enough without...”
“Without what?”
Her words come out in a rush, unfiltered. “Without me standing here wanting to touch you. Without me wondering what your markings feel like under my fingers. Without me thinking about you when I should be thinking about my job.”
My throat constricts. “Paige.”
The use of her first name breaks something in her expression. She steps back abruptly. “I'm sorry. That was inappropriate. I shouldn't have said that.”
“You regret the statement?”
“No.” She backs toward the exit. “That's the problem. I don't regret it at all.”
Then she's gone, leaving me alone in the observation deck with golden markings I can't suppress and a complete inability to categorize what has just occurred.
I remain at the viewport for 28 minutes and 35 seconds, attempting to restore emotional equilibrium.
The effort fails. My markings refuse to return to neutral silver.
My heart rate remains elevated. My thoughts circle obsessively around the image of her standing close enough to touch, admitting she thinks about me.
Mission parameters do not include falling for my chief engineer.
Yet the evidence suggests I already have.