It was late, and Arkwright was tired.
The bridge was empty save for a few staff who sat quietly at their stations. For all his personability, Arkwright still tried to at least look professionally busy during his watches on the Bridge, and the late one was usually when he saved his reports and messages to review. He sat in his Exec's right hand seat, the command pit arrayed beneath him, scrolling through a list of notices and addenda on a datapad.
He held a second datapad underneath the first, one bearing the green humanoid-shaped insignia of MedBay. He was saving that for last, and by that he meant he was putting it off. He could admit to having developed his own doubts about McCathan, but until his conversation with Lavine he didn't really have any reason to listen to them. Reading her report would make his concerns real, bring them forward where he couldn't ignore them, and that was something he was content to put off as long as he could.
Frowning, he slid the second datapad back underneath the first, out of his sight, and returned his attention to the list of messages. It would be easy to simply infer the contents of most of them from their titles alone, but he was obliged to at least open them, and he gave the more predictable of the bunch a quick skim first.
Fleet maneuvers, something about personnel transfers on somebody else's ship, something else, weekly reactor assembly check schedule, bla-di-bla etcetera. Mark as 'read'.
Next was Rince's weekly report on his detachment. It read much the same as last week's: glowing praise for most of the marines, and potential from the rest so long as someone kicked them in the ass now and then. The names Rince had highlighted were the typical medal-holders. Jo'Rethhe, strong-willed and violently determined, when she has the sense to stay in line. Scourge, a loyal pointman and next in line for Staff Sergeant if Rince had his way. Dekoryeh, a valuable marksman and a reliable cuss to have at your side. He threw an extra note in about Wereling's quick thinking the day before on the Karah Wind.
Arkwright glanced up to look out into space. One of the last remaining Rebel ships still sitting in orbit around whatever rock they'd been keeping station over was finally powering up engines and preparing to head off to the Fleet, someplace the Liberator would be joining them shortly.
Hm. The next item piqued his interest: Lieutenant Wind's report on the ship thief Alwyn and Him had rounded up. Opening it, the report was disappointingly short, and Arkwright was sure Rince was just as disappointed he didn't get to have more fun with his prisoner than he himself was that there wasn't much to be learned from him. Apparently he was just fringe scum, from a band of common ship thieves. Well, they'd certainly made a mistake toying with the Alliance, but he wondered how Rince could assure him so sternly that the man was useless. Looking over the rest of the page on his datapad, he learned that under the lightest 'questioning,' the man had ...
Arkwright burbled with mild laughter. Hopefully they'd cleaned it up.
Tabbing back to his list, he found himself to be near the end of it. That steward had sure as hell better hurry up with the caf.
After glancing over a few more routine communiques with one eye and glancing over his chrono a few times with the other - almost over, thank god, and then he could sleep ... but only after the McCathan report ... dammit - he came to the last item on his list, from one of the Midshipmen assigned to Primary Communications.
From: Midshipman Sarah Shoultes
Priority: Gamma
I had originally reported this to Mr. Darktrayn and he ordered me to pass it on to you instead. Yesterday I was doing some very much needed data optimisation on the computer core blocks allocated to P-Comm and noticed some kind of anomaly in the secondary antenna broadcast logs. It could be some kind of glitch, but there's missing data in certain places. Ordinarily that would mean some data shunting and a data plate replacement, but the gaps come at regular intervals - about twenty minutes worth each, on the second day of every week, towards the end of the last watch, almost like a planned erasure. I've checked back over a month and the gaps are consistent. I plan to check back further, and will let you know what I find.
Arkwright dropped his datapads, things snapping together in his head like mating airlocks. He had stopped reading at 'last watch.' A glance back at his chrono confirmed his thought.
He stood quickly. "Ensign Deacon!"
"Sir?" a voice answered from the deck below him.
"You have the watch. Muek, ring Lieutenant Wind and tell him to meet me in P-Comm. I don't care if he's asleep." He looked down at the datapads on the floor by his feet. The MedBay symbol stared back at him accusingly.
Dammit.
"When you're done with that, Muek, closely monitor all long range broadcasts. Especially bursts. Don't block anything unauthorized, but record it. And tell the steward to forget about the caf!" he concluded as he charged out the door.
Stopping just outside, he hammered a small hatch on the wall with the side of his fist. It sprung open, revealing a small rack of blasters. He grabbed the big one.
He had a spy to catch. His only worry was that Rince would beat him to P-Comm ... and ask questions later.
Arkwright's heart was beating rapidly as he stepped out of the lift. The corridor was deserted. Holding the blaster up next to his face, he crept the five short meters down the hall to the communication room door.
Thoughts of how this person might react began to cross his mind, and a lot of them he didn't particularly care for. This was probably really stupid, he thought, without backup. He cursed himself for not keeping a tighter rein on Wind - he should have known better than to let the little incident with Heinrich's kneecaps go unchecked.
The hatch was slightly ajar. Moving up to it as quietly as his boots on the deck plating would allow, he leaned around the doorframe and gently pushed the hatch farther open.
It swung open quietly on well oiled hinges, and Arkwright began breathing again.
The room was dark, lit dimly by lights from various displays. Down in the main section of the control room, a few steps below the level of the deck, leaning over one panel was a silhouetted figure, male.
Arkwright kept his blaster aimed at his shoulders, waiting patiently in the doorway, trying to recognize the strongly built figure. The hair looked almost white ...
Before he had time to process this, he made the mistake of shifting his weight. It was only slightly, but his boot squeaked like leather.
The figure turned his head slightly, caught Arkwright in the corner of his eye, and whipped around to face him. He heard an audible swallow.
"Sir," the man said nervously.
"You're up awfully late," the commander replied, keeping both eyes on the man and one hand the blaster as he reached for a small panel next to the door with the other. He hit the lights, and they both squinted in the sudden brightness.
"Scourge?"
Kesk raised his hands obediently, seeming to shrug an apology.
Arkwright furrowed his brow. This ... didn't make sense. Not ten minutes ago he'd just read a glowing report on this man. He'd kept his eye on him every time they'd gone into a firefight together and he was always the most collected, rock solid marine on the team. He'd fought harder than anybody when Karah died, second only to Marrim's undeniable fury. Theer was no conceivable reason how he could sell out to the Empire this way.
Snapping himself out of his thoughts, Arkwright whipped his relaxed blaster back up to Scourge's chest, shifting his feet uncomfortably, not stepping any closer.
They both glanced down at the panel next to Kesk's hip. There was a transmission in progress.
Arkwright's biting command halted the corporal's hand in midair. "Don't touch it. Let it finish. We've got a tap on it anyway."
Scourge was still silent. He looked at his commander with a look of sadness. Not defiance, not anger or contempt ... but regret.
This wasn't adding up at all.
"All right, turn around. Slow like. You know this drill by now. Keep the hands up ... "