Chapter 5 Paige
PAIGE
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 my body 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.”
“Like the asteroid field.”
“Exactly like the asteroid field.” I pull up my fluctuation data alongside the images. “Same MO. Create the problem, time it perfectly, make it look like system failure instead of sabotage.”
He reaches past me to point at a correlation on the screen, and his arm brushes mine. The contact is brief but I feel heat radiating through his uniform. Warmer than human normal. Not uncomfortable. Just different.
I should move. Give him space. But I don't.
“Here.” His finger traces a pattern in the data. “The power fluctuation that preceded the pump failure. Same signature as the others.”
“They're getting bolder.” I angle my tablet so we can both see. “First they tested the systems. Then the asteroid field. Now direct sabotage of life support. They're escalating.”
“Because we're investigating. They know we're closing in.” He turns his head, and suddenly his face is very close to mine.
Close enough to see the individual silver lines tracing his temples, the intricate patterns branching along his throat.
“I need someone I trust investigating alongside me.
Someone with the technical expertise to understand what we're looking for.”
“You have me.” My voice is barely a whisper.
His eyes drop to my mouth for half a second before returning to meet my gaze. “Do I?”
The question hangs between us. Not asking about the investigation. Asking about something else entirely.
“I'm here, aren't I?” My voice sounds strange. “At 0230 hours. With evidence I could have documented and reported through channels. But I came to you first.”
“Why?”
“Because right now, you're the only person I completely trust with this.” I set my tablet down, needing something to do with my hands. “Because you believe me when no one else does. Because...”
I stop. The next words feel too honest. Too dangerous.
“Because?” He turns fully toward me now, and I realize how close we're standing.
Less than a meter. Close enough to see the slight irregularities in his markings where they branch along his throat.
Close enough to smell that unique scent I'm starting to associate with him.
Something clean and electric, and beneath that, spice. Something distinctly not-human.
“Because when I'm with you, I don't feel alone in this.” The admission costs something. “Everyone else thinks I'm paranoid. Seeing threats where there aren't any. But you see them too. You understand.”
His hand rises slowly, giving me time to pull away. When I don't, his fingers brush my arm. Just above the elbow. Light enough that I could pretend it didn't happen. Except I feel that touch like a brand.
“You're not paranoid.” His voice has dropped lower. “You're observant. Brilliant. The only reason we're still alive is because you noticed what others missed.”
“You would have seen it eventually.”
“No.” The word is certain. “I was looking at data. You were looking at the ship. There's a difference.”
We're standing too close. I know this. Know I should step back. Put professional distance between us. But my body doesn't move. Instead, I find myself tilting my face up slightly, drawn by something I can't name.
His markings flood with gold. Pure, undeniable gold that lights the space between us.
“This is not appropriate,” he says, but he doesn't move away.
“No,” I agree. “It's not.”
Neither of us steps back.
I can see the exact moment he makes the decision. It's there in the way his eyes track from my eyes to my mouth and back. In the way he leans forward fractionally. In the way his hand slides from my arm to my waist, gentle but unmistakable.
I mirror the movement without thinking. My hand finds his chest, palm flat against the warm fabric of his uniform. I can feel his heart beating underneath. Fast. Faster than human normal.
“We shouldn't,” I whisper.
“No,” he agrees. His face is so close now that his breath moves my hair. “We shouldn't.”
But we're both still leaning in. Centimeters separating us. Then millimeters.
His comm unit beeps.
We both freeze. The sound cuts through whatever spell we were under, sharp and jarring. He steps back, creating professional distance, his hand leaving my waist. I pull my hand from his chest, suddenly aware of how far I'd let this go.
He activates the comm. “Zoric.”
“Captain, sorry to disturb you.” Tanaka's voice. “We're getting fluctuating readings from the environmental systems. Engineering reports a pump failure, but backup systems are compensating. I wanted to make you aware.”
“Understood. Chief Martin is with me. We're investigating.” He keeps his voice perfectly level. Professional. “We'll have a full report in the morning.”
“Acknowledged. Tanaka out.”
The silence after the comm closes feels heavier than before. We both stand there, not looking at each other, processing what almost happened.
“I should go,” I finally say.
“Paige.” The way he says it—soft, certain—makes me grip my tablet harder. The metal feels suddenly cool against the heat spreading across my palms. “This investigation is dangerous. Whoever's doing this has already tried to kill everyone on this ship twice. If they realize you're hunting them...”
“I know.” I force myself to meet his eyes. “But I'm not stopping. These are my systems. My department. If someone's sabotaging them, I need to know who.”
“Then we investigate together.” His markings have settled, mostly. “No one works alone. That's an order.”
“Sir.” The formal acknowledgment feels strange after what has just almost happened.
He watches me move toward the door but doesn't try to stop me. Just before I leave, I turn back.
“Zoric?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For believing me.”
“I will always believe you.” The certainty in his voice wraps around me like a promise. “Sleep. Tomorrow we find out who's trying to destroy this ship.”
I nod and leave before I do something stupid like walk back to him.
Morning comes too soon, bringing with it the realization that someone in my department wants us dead.
I arrive in Engineering at 0600 hours for gamma shift changeover. The deck is busy, engineers moving between stations, running diagnostics, logging overnight reports.
Except someone's hung a string of colored lights over the diagnostic station—technically against regulations but cheerful.
Normal. Everything looks normal.
Except it's not.
Walsh Burton stands at the secondary console, tablet in hand, making notes. He glances up when I enter, holds my gaze for two seconds too long, then returns to his tablet. Writing something. What is he writing?
“Chief.” Jian comes to stand at my elbow, holding out her shift report. “Quiet night except for the pump failure. Already replaced the conduit and ran full diagnostics. System's back to normal.”
“Who replaced it?”
She checks her tablet. “Burton supervised. Said you'd authorized disposal of the damaged section due to plasma contamination.”
I never authorized disposal. “Show me the authorization.”
Jian pulls up the file. It has my signature code, but the timestamp is wrong—I was in Zoric's office when this was supposedly approved. Someone forged it.
I scan the deck. Marcus from power systems waves at me, friendly and open as always. Yuki at the diagnostic station looks up and smiles. Perrin at environmental doesn't acknowledge me at all. Neither does Briggs at structural.
The divide is forming. Some people still treat me normally. Others avoid eye contact. Conversations pause when I approach, resume after I pass.
Walsh makes another note on his tablet. Diana Moss does the same at her station, both of them documenting something they're not sharing.
“Jian,” I say quietly. “I need you to pull all plasma torch access logs for the past week. Don't tell anyone you're doing it.”
Her eyes widen slightly, but she nods. “Yes, Chief.”
A few minutes later, Jian comes to my console. “Chief, there's something weird here.” She pulls up the plasma torch access logs. “Three entries are missing timestamps—just blank fields. But the sequence numbers show gaps.”
“Can you recover the data?”
“I tried. The logs were accessed from Communications fifteen minutes after each gap. Diana Moss's credentials.” Jian pulls up the access record. “She viewed them, then they were corrupted. Could be coincidence. Could be someone using her login.”
Or it could be Diana covering tracks.
“Jian? Be careful who you talk to. I mean it.”
“Understood.” She moves away, her expression troubled.
I force myself to walk through the department like everything's fine. Check systems. Review logs. Approve maintenance schedules. Normal chief engineer activities.
But I feel Walsh's eyes on me the entire time. Feel the weight of suspicion settling over my department like a shroud. See the lines forming between those who trust me and those who don't.
Someone here tried to kill us. And until I know who, everyone needs to be a suspect.