Alien Spark (Mothership #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

Elena

The trick to crawling inside a live power conduit was convincing yourself you were already dead.

I wiggled another six inches through the maintenance shaft, my shoulders protesting the tight quarters while electricity hummed inches from my face.

The conduit walls glowed faintly blue, energy signatures pulsing like a mechanical heartbeat.

Beautiful, really. If you ignored the part where one wrong move would fry every nerve ending in your body.

My headlamp flickered. Again.

"Come on," I muttered, smacking the side of the unit with more force than necessary. The light steadied. "Not the time to quit on me."

Nothing was supposed to quit on me. Not equipment, not power systems, and definitely not my ability to focus on work instead of the fact that I'd just spent three hours watching my best friends celebrate their bonding ceremony while I stood in the back corner like some kind of emotional vampire feeding on their happiness.

The power coupling I needed was another fifteen feet ahead.

I could see it through the lattice of conduit supports, a junction box that had been flagged for maintenance weeks ago but kept getting deprioritized because it required someone small enough to access it and stupid enough to do it while the system was active.

Enter Elena Vasquez, electrical engineer and professional bad decision maker.

My comm unit crackled. "Vasquez, status report."

I recognized the voice. Krev'al, one of the junior engineers on the second shift. Probably assigned to monitor my work from the safety of the control room, where smart people stayed when dealing with potentially lethal electrical systems.

"Still alive," I said, inching forward. "Making progress."

"Your vitals are elevated. Heart rate is—"

"Within acceptable parameters for someone crawling through a death trap at 0200 hours." I reached the junction box, pulled my diagnostic scanner from my tool belt. "I'm fine, Krev. Just let me work."

Silence on the other end. "Security Chief Vaxon requested hourly updates on your status."

Of course he did. Because apparently my workload, my schedule, and my complete disregard for self-preservation were now the personal concern of Mothership's Head of Security.

As if he didn't have actual security issues to worry about, like the raiders spotted near the debris fields last week or the weapons systems that needed recalibration.

But no. Vaxon had decided that tiny human Elena was his new project.

"Tell the Commander I'm touched by his concern," I said, not bothering to hide my irritation. "Also tell him he's not my supervisor anymore, so he can take his hourly updates and—"

The junction box sparked.

My brain registered the danger half a second before my body reacted. I jerked backward, tool belt catching on a conduit support, electricity arcing across the space where my hands had been moments earlier. The smell of ozone filled the tight space, sharp and acrid.

"Vasquez!" Krev's voice pitched higher. "Are you—"

"I'm fine." My heart hammered against my ribs. Fine was a generous interpretation of almost died again, but accurate enough for present purposes. "Just a surge. I've got it under control."

I didn't have it under control. The junction box was degrading faster than the diagnostics had indicated, which meant this repair needed to happen now or the entire power distribution system for Section Seven would fail.

Section Seven, where three hundred crew members currently slept in quarters that would lose life support if the junction went critical.

No pressure.

I pulled my insulated gloves tighter, checked my grounding strap twice, and reached for the junction box again. My hands were steady despite the adrenaline spike. That was the thing about being terrified, do it enough times and your body stops bothering to tell your brain about it.

The panel opened smoothly. Inside, a nightmare of degraded wiring and failing components greeted me.

Whoever had installed this junction had done decent work, but Mothership was old by ship standards.

Things failed. Things wore out. Things needed constant, meticulous attention from engineers who gave a damn.

I gave a damn. About the ship, anyway. About the three hundred crew members currently sleeping in Section Seven. About making sure systems worked the way they were supposed to work.

Just not about myself.

Bea's voice echoed in my head, her therapist tone slipping through despite the weeks since our last real conversation: You're punishing yourself for something.

Wrong. I wasn't punishing myself. I was just being useful. Making up for taking up space on Mothership, for being another mouth to feed, another body requiring oxygen and food and quarters that could have gone to someone more valuable.

For surviving when so many others hadn't.

I shoved the thought away and focused on the wiring.

Twenty minutes of careful work, rerouting power flows, replacing degraded components, testing each connection twice before moving to the next.

My shoulders screamed from an awkward angle.

My knees ached from bracing against the conduit walls.

Sweat dripped into my eyes despite the cooled air flowing through the maintenance shaft.

But the junction box stabilized. Power flow returned to optimal levels. Section Seven's life support remained secure.

I allowed myself exactly ten seconds of satisfaction before backing out of the conduit, pulling my tool belt free from where it had caught on every possible surface, and emerging into the maintenance access corridor like some kind of grease-stained mechanical birth.

The corridor lighting felt painfully bright after hours in the dim shaft. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and nearly ran directly into a wall.

Except walls didn't usually have electric-blue tactical markings that glowed faintly in corridor lighting.

"You're supposed to file maintenance schedules with Security before accessing restricted areas," Vaxon said, his deep voice somehow managing to sound both disappointed and unsurprised. "Especially when those areas involve potentially lethal electrical systems."

I looked up. And up. And up, because Vaxon was eight feet eight inches of warrior muscle and disapproval wrapped in charcoal-black skin that made his blue markings seem to float in the air like neon accusations.

His cobalt eyes tracked across my face, cataloging the grease smears, the sweat, the exhaustion I couldn't quite hide. His jaw, the one with the scar that ran from chin to ear,tightened almost imperceptibly.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, because attack was better than defense and I was too tired for this conversation.

"Monitoring a crew member who repeatedly endangers herself with unnecessary risks." He crossed his arms over his massive chest. "The junction box maintenance could have been scheduled during normal hours with proper safety protocols."

"The junction box was degrading faster than projected.

It needed immediate attention or Section Seven would have lost power.

" I gestured back toward the conduit access.

"Which I noticed during my routine systems check, which I performed on my own time, which doesn't require your approval or presence. "

"Everything that affects crew safety requires my attention.

" His voice dropped lower, which should have been impossible given how deep it already was.

"Including electrical engineers who work eighteen-hour shifts without breaks, refuse to eat in communal dining, and hide in maintenance shafts at 0200 hours instead of sleeping. "

The accuracy of his observations made something in my chest constrict. He'd been watching me. Tracking my schedule. Noticing things he had no business noticing.

"I'm fine," I said automatically.

"You're not."

Challenging words. I could argue, but what was the point? Vaxon had survived a battle that killed his entire unit. He knew what self-destruction looked like, probably recognized it better than I did.

"I'm handling it," I amended, which was closer to the truth. Barely.

"By working until you collapse? By taking on the most dangerous assignments despite having enough regular work to fill two shifts? By avoiding everyone who cares about you?" His eyes narrowed. "That's not handling anything. That's running from it."

"I'm not—" The protest died in my throat because he was right and we both knew it. "You're not my supervisor anymore. You don't get to lecture me about my work habits."

"You're correct. I'm not your supervisor." Something shifted in his expression, too quick for me to identify. "I'm Security Chief, which means crew safety is my responsibility. Including yours, whether you want it or not."

"I don't need protection."

"Everyone needs protection." He uncrossed his arms, and for a moment I thought he might reach out, might do something that would crack whatever fragile control I was maintaining.

But he just stood there, this massive warrior looking at me like I was something breakable he didn't know how to handle.

"Even brilliant engineers who convince themselves they're invincible. "

The compliment, because that's what it was, wrapped in concern, hit harder than it should have. I looked away, focusing on my grease-stained hands instead of his too-perceptive eyes.

"I have another diagnostic to run," I lied. "Sector Nine power grid."

"At 0230 hours."

"Problems don't respect normal working hours."

"Neither does exhaustion. Or injury. Or death from electrical shock." He moved slightly, blocking my path down the corridor without obviously blocking my path. The man was infuriating. "When did you last sleep?"