PERSONAL RECORD: DESIGNATION ZETA4542910-9545E
CTS THALASSA
478.2.6.04
Once the drone again informed me of my temporary access, I held my breath and typed, >>Available networks?
Its screen went blank, then, >>Internal network acknowledged. Ship-wide network damaged. Consortium network disabled.
I dropped into the chair, and relief swelled in my chest. No one had witnessed my efforts. James and Daniel were yet safe. I could feed the information as slowly as I needed, hiding it within—
My thoughts crashed to a stop. The Consortium network had been disabled?
>>When? I typed. >>By whom?
>>Clarify.
I bit my lower lip. >>Who disabled the Consortium network? When?
>>Elder Eta4513110-0197E disabled the network on 478.2.5.06 at 15:47.
“The Elder himself?” The words slipped out, unintended.
>>Confirmed.
“But . . .” Why eight days ago? I mentally reviewed the events of last sixth-day. That would have been . . . Rose Parker’s death. I caught myself before I uttered her name. “When the first shuttle returned from Pallas?”
>>Thirty-seven minutes after.
But what had happened? “Show me.”
>>No neural chip.
I blinked at the drone before I realized what it meant. I snatched up my blue datapad. “Show me. Utilize visual records of events.”
Without any other acknowledgment, images sped past. I watched on my datapad as Jordan escorted Rose Parker’s hover gurney onto Thalassa. A small monitor at the top of the image displayed Lorik’s vital signs. His heart was already racing when he arrived, but when Jackson called the Recorder Parker, the Elder’s stress hormone levels shot up beyond normal parameters. A spike of self-administered neurochemicals brought his responses under control. With what I knew now—his apology, his name, his concern for the people under his care—his actions took on a different light. He had not been solely concerned for himself, but also for the Recorder. For Rose Parker.
The records lost a degree of dimensionality when they split. A tiny image from his slave drone showed Rose Parker, Cam, and me on our way to the quarantine room, while the second image showed the Elder refusing to comply with Jordan’s and Jackson’s demands to release the Recorder into Max’s care. My focus darted between the two scenes, lingering in the quarantine room. The recorded, miniscule version of me turned to the door as the drone locked Cam out, and he shouted for me. While recorded-me turned to fetch the dying Recorder a drink of water, my attention flitted back to the Elder. Hormones indicating fear and anger surged. Lorik sprinted to stop me from harming her, checking the few working cameras as he ran. He had known Jackson was on his way when he had issued the command to leave the door open.
The perspectives united again, and there, on the screen, I saw myself, aghast at the Elder’s apparent lack of concern. A blip in the record verified that Lorik had lied, had tricked the marines into promising not to reveal how Rose Parker had died. His threat to withhold medication to ease Parker’s pain was that—merely a threat.
Lorik had hidden his reaction to the subsequent reprimand well.
On my datapad, tiny-Jackson’s eyebrows slammed together, his anger evident to Lorik and noted in the record. The marine held out his hand to apply his thumbprint and sign the nondisclosure agreement. His words sounded with unusual strength for the miniscule images, as if the Elder had granted them more weight than they should have had: “I’ll do it. We all will.”
The documentation ceased.
My datapad’s screen flickered. >>End of transmitted records. Network disabled.
I sagged against the wall. Lorik might have watched through the camera, but he had told the truth. No one else had seen Parker die or witnessed the marines’ farewell. Or had they?
“Access ship’s records,” I said. “Display documentation of the Recorder’s disposal.”
The drone showed me official documentation of death and cremation, such as any Center for Reclamation and Recycling might issue.
“Insufficient,” I protested. “Play records from the event itself.”
>>No record exists. Certificate of Disposal available.
Impossible. “How?”
>>Camera not functional.
There was one more place to check, so I typed, >>Transcription of personal record for Elder Eta4513110-0197E. Date 478.2.5.07.
I skimmed the files. The Elder had neither recorded Rose Parker’s death nor prioritized the repair of Thalassa’s Consortium devices. In fact, his last log entry stated that transmissions from Recorders on Pallas had ceased, that he suspected accidents. The official message had been transmitted to the Consortium over the ship’s communications links.
He had never reactivated the network.
I dropped down onto the unmade bed, the datapad clasped to my chest. The marines were safe. Every marine who had sung as Rose Parker was cremated, every marine who had shaved his or her head out of respect for the Recorder called Parker. Safe.
We were all far safer than we had thought.
Lorik would have been sentenced to the Halls for interfering with the record, but according to his personal logs, that decision had been made long before he had faced the roaches.
A knot formed in my throat. I had not known. No one would have known, if I had not accessed his logs. Shame trickled like water.
“I am sorry,” I whispered to the man who had died so I would not.
The datapad buzzed in my hand.
>>Reenter security codes to access files.
Had I not already viewed the files? My forehead scrunched, but I again input Lorik’s codes. Once more, the screen blurred with letters, numbers, and images, but these did not belong to the Elder.
“Stop!”
The images and letters froze, and the skin on my neck prickled.
“These personal records belong to the Recorder assigned to Pallas Station?”
>>Recorder Eta4311101-1348R.
The answer was as uninformative as it was meant to be, since Recorders had no names. “I do not recognize that number. Was she stationed on Pallas as Recorder?”
>>Yes.
Her datapad, the damaged green one . . .
When I had opened it for the first time, there had been no layers of security. Instead, a small recording had played in which she explained her suspicions of conspiracy to create a bioweapon. She had supplied an index of materials that had disappeared, including medication that may have ended her life. I had believed that the lack of evidence was to protect potentially innocent citizens, though, if memory served, she had mentioned Parliament’s fear of potential corporate espionage. Or had the lack of information been based on her inherent distrust of citizenry?
I tapped my leg.
Anyone could have found the datapad, but not everyone could have found her files. Only an Elder would be able to open her personal records.
For three seconds, I hesitated. My original goal outside my assignment from the Elders had been to track down Kyleigh’s father’s murderer. This . . . this might help me do so.
“Play the recordings.”
>>Datapad insufficient.
“Other than a neural implant, what will suffice?” I stood, staring at the empty frame across from me. I held up a hand. “No, do not answer. Reserve VVR.”
>>Power restrictions prohibit unauthorized usage of VVR. At current rate of repair, next available VVR slots will be 478.2.8.09. Reserving first slot at 04:30.
Two and a half ten-days?
“There must be a way to display partial records.” I pursed my lips. “Create index and display on the linked datapad. Add alarm for VVR reservation.”
I set the datapad on the chair again and turned to the drone, but before anything flashed across its screen, my communications link chimed.
“Got the datastick to Edwards,” Nate said without preamble. “We copied it all and sent it both to Archimedes and to the virologists. Took longer than I thought.”
“Thank you,” I said, though I watched the datapad, which continued to say nothing.
“That drone on?”
“Yes.” The delay in his response drew me from my introspection. “Timmons?”
“Still here.” The communications link magnified his exhalation. “Look, I—we—need you to suit up.”
“Why?” I asked, though I was already crossing to retrieve the lightly armored suit that was not entirely mine.
“You’re heading down to Pallas.”
“I do not understand, Nathaniel.” I hastily added his surname. “Timmons. Nathaniel Timmons. Yesterday, you and the captain were adamant that I remain on Thalassa for my own safety. What has happened?”
“We’re expecting company.”
I turned as if I would see Nate, my hand on the cleaning unit’s door. “Clarify.” Perhaps I had been spending too much time with the drone. I modified my query. “What do you mean by ‘company’?”
His voice sounded tight, even over the communications link. “The Consortium is on its way.”