Deep Space Station S-8
“You wanted to see me, Lieutenant?”
Sulu found Tilton in his office, peering vacantly out of the viewport. Knox and Johann were along as backup, not that the worn-down old station manager appeared likely to cause trouble. Then again, Sulu reminded himself, appearances could be deceiving.
“That’s right, sir.” Sulu declined to sit down. “It’s about the saboteur.”
Tilton didn’t look at him. “Yes, I heard that you and Grandle apprehended someone. Good work.”
“Thank you, but I’m afraid that was just an isolated incident. I have reason to believe that we still have a bigger problem, one that’s been right under our noses all this time.”
Tilton frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean, Lieutenant.”
“Well, I’ve been aboard this station long enough to see that Mister Grandle runs a very tight ship, even under the present circumstances, which makes it highly unlikely that any serious saboteur could get away with it for as long as they have . . . unless they were uniquely positioned to do so.”
That got a response from Tilton, who finally turned toward Sulu. “Excuse me, Lieutenant, what exactly are you implying? That Mister Grandle is the guilty party?”
“No, sir,” Sulu answered. “Even Grandle has only limited access to this station’s primary systems and controls. The only person on this station with the authority to disable or override any and all security measures, edit logs and registers, and have free run of the entire station, including its most sensitive areas, is . . . you, Mister Tilton.”
Tilton’s reaction was typically muted. There was no indignation or angry protestations of innocence. He didn’t even look surprised by the accusation. His haggard face remained slack, his voice barely more than a monotone. He might as well have been discussing the weather in New Helsinki this time of year.
“An interesting theory, Lieutenant, but where is your evidence?”
“Honestly, it’s the lack of evidence that’s most provocative,” Sulu said. “Take the incident in the shuttlebay, for instance. I’ve reviewed the engineers’ reports; as far as they can tell, there was no obvious mechanical reason why the emergency vents and filters failed in the crisis. They didn’t malfunction, they were deliberately deactivated in anticipation of the coolant leak, in which case there should be some record of who exactly entered that command, but that data appears to have mysteriously vanished from all the relevant databases.” Sulu fixed a stern gaze on Tilton. “There’s not many people on this station who could issue that command and delete all trace of it afterward. You covered your trail too well, Tilton. That’s what pointed me toward you.”
It wasn’t exactly a smoking gun, and probably wouldn’t hold up in a court of law, but Sulu felt in his gut that he was on the right track. He didn’t need to prove it; he just needed to stop Tilton from doing any more damage. Not that a full confession wouldn’t make this easier for all concerned.
“Is that all you have, Lieutenant?”
“Not exactly.” Sulu crossed the room to examine the scale model of the Shenzhou on display in the manager’s office. “I’ve been looking into your background. You’ve had an impressive career, mostly in engineering, including a stint as the deputy superintendent of the Tranquility Base shipyards back during the first Federation-Klingon War. You even received a commendation for preventing a matter-antimatter generator from exploding due to Klingon sabotage . . . which, ironically enough, proves you have the skills and the know-how to pull off this recent campaign of sabotage.”
Tilton mustered a dry chuckle.
“Do you hear yourself, Lieutenant Sulu?” the man scoffed. “No evidence is evidence? Preventing sabotage proves I’m the saboteur? Sounds to me like you’ve gone through the looking glass and have this all backward.”
Sulu feared that Grandle would feel the same way, which is why he had not included her in this informal interrogation. He hoped to present Tilton’s guilt to her as a fait accompli.
“You have the means and opportunity,” he insisted. “The only thing that still stumps me is the motive.” He spun Tilton’s chair around to face him and leaned toward the embattled manager. “Why, Tilton? Why sabotage your own station and the travelers depending on you?”
“I . . .” Tilton’s blank expression buckled for a moment. Grimacing, he opened his mouth to answer, only to seemingly choke on his own words, producing nothing more than a strangled, inarticulate gargle. A muscle twitched beneath his cheek. “I . . .”
“Tilton?” Sulu was taken aback by the man’s apparent distress. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Is he all right, sir?” Knox asked, looking on.
“Beats me,” Sulu answered. “Talk to me, Tilton. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” the man said. “Nothing, except—” He grimaced again, as though straining to get the words out, before abandoning the effort. The fit seemed to pass as his expression emptied out again, collapsing back into blank passivity. His voice drained of all emotion. “What do you want me to say, Lieutenant? I won’t say it. I can’t say it . . .”
“Tilton?”
“I’m so tired,” he said, “so tired and alone . . .”
Sulu stepped back, away from the inert manager, who almost appeared to be having some sort of breakdown. He was tempted to summon Doctor M’Benga, but was reluctant to do so before he got the answers he needed.
“Talk to me, Tilton,” he said again, more gently this time. “If you need help, we can get it for you. Just tell me what’s wrong with you.”
“Nothing,” Tilton mumbled. His detached gaze returned to the viewport, looking out into space. “Nothing but emptiness, extending forever and ever . . .”
“I think he’s gone, sir,” Knox said. “Mentally, I mean.”
“I don’t get it,” Johann added. “It’s like he doesn’t even care that he could get shipped off to a penal colony.”
“More like a psychiatric hospital,” Knox said. “Not that there’s much difference these days.”
Sulu froze. The young officers’ chatter, along with this entire situation, teased his memory indistinctly. Something about all this felt strangely familiar, even if he couldn’t quite place it just yet.
“What did you just say?” he asked.
Knox shrugged. “Just speculating about whether Mister Tilton belonged in a penal colony or a mental asylum, assuming he is the saboteur, as you suspect.”
“Same difference,” Johann said.
Sulu let their remarks echo in his brain, hoping the reverberations would shake the right memory loose. Tilton mumbled in the background, his face and voice empty of emotion, as though the man he’d been had been leeched away from him, leaving nothing but an empty husk . . .
“Great Bird of the Galaxy,” Sulu whispered as it hit him like a phaser on stun.
It had been a few years ago, during the early days of the Enterprise’s five-year mission. A routine visit to a remote penal colony on Tantalus V had turned ugly when it was discovered that the Federation’s most-celebrated psychiatrist, Doctor Tristan Adams, had been testing an experimental new mind-control device on the inmates under his care. Sulu had not been on the first landing party to visit the colony, but he’d beamed down later to help restore order to the asylum in the wake of Adams’s defeat and accidental demise. He still remembered some of the brainwashed patients he’d encountered there, particularly a chilling young woman named Lethe, who displayed the same empty eyes and lack of affect that Tilton did now, thanks to Adams’s insidious invention, which he’d called . . . what was it again? It took Sulu a moment to retrieve the name.
A neural neutralizer.
“Alert Doctor M’Benga,” he ordered. “We need to get this man to the infirmary!”