“MITCHELL.” Lefebvre stood in front of the servo door, staring across the corridor as if he could will the other to stir. “Are you asleep?”
“I wouldn’t call it sleeping,” the voice answered quietly, as if husbanding his strength. “What’s the matter? Did they decide to feed us at last?”
“Something’s up with the environmental controls.” Lefebvre sniffed again, ran his hand along a damp wall for unnecessary confirmation. He knew starships—the system wasn’t failing, it had been reset to these parameters. Sabotage? he wondered with a bite of hope. “Your—” he remembered the vids in time to stop and say instead: “Haven’t smelled air this foul since the bar on D’Dsel.”
“It’s an older ship. Are you sure?” This a shade too casual. So Mitchell felt it, too.
Lefebvre nodded to himself. “Humidity’s up; temp’s below norm. Something’s not right with the oxygen/carbon dioxide balance either. Tipped. Odd combination.”
“These things happen. I’m sure they’ll fix it.”
“If they don’t get on it,” Lefebvre commented, “the crew’s likely to get a bit groggy. Might even start hallucinating.”
“Then let’s hope everyone is careful.”
Lefebvre was sure he hadn’t imagined the stress on “everyone.” Did Mitchell have a contact among the crew? Was this friend he protected with his life here?
He chewed his lip pensively, staring at the vids, then sat down on the cot.
Lefebvre knew how to wait. The only concern he had now was how soon Logan would be back for his appointment with Mitchell. How much more could Mitchell Kane’s body endure, even with the med’s help? That cough could be a sign of some internal damage they hadn’t bothered to repair. There could be more.
If Mitchell had a friend on board, Lefebvre told himself, that friend better hurry.