"System error," the computer told him helpfully. "Insufficient power to activate secondary plasma injectors."

"Come on!" Tred said, slamming his fists onto the console. "There's enough power in the tertiary power booster!"

"System error," the computer repeated.

The air in the room was growing stale, he thought. He'd heard the air recirculators come on, soft hums of power, and checked the system tickets about them. But the air still felt old.

And humid, he thought, wiping his brow. Something wasn't right with the system.

The main power was down, and most of the reserve system was doing self-diagnostics. It was the kind of thing you wouldn't do outside of the optimal circumstances - always be ready for an emergency - but this had been optimal circumstances. No permanent population, under non-combat conditions.

But then, he reasoned, they were also far from help and on the edge of the Terris system of all places.

Maybe it hadn't been the right call - but that was why he'd asked the Lieutenant.

No, no, don't do that, he chided himself. He couldn't pass the buck to relieve himself of his own duties. He had to solve this. His life depended on it - and more, really.

He was a shaky enough person. How could he deal with not even trying his best when it all fell to him?

His hands were shaking, he realized. Struggling to swallow in a throat suddenly dry, he went over the whole situation.

There wasn't enough power to start the main reactor. The power was being used elsewhere, but somehow there wasn't enough power to stop those processes, either.

Which was actually odd. AI systems and their . . . methods . . . were a hazy science to him. Sure, he worked with them at times, but his expertise was in fusion reactors.

He recalled an adage about fusion engineers believing all problems could be solved with more power, and he couldn't disagree with it being either a mindset or correct.

He brought up the system information again. The list of where the power was being routed came up, and it accounted for every joule. There was nowhere else he could get the power.

Though, really, the AI cores seemed to be drawing on the higher end. It was within parameters, but it was doing it for both processes. That wasn't impossible, but seemed odd. He did a check, looking for their efficiency ratings.

The number popped up and he blinked.

Thirty-two percent? That made no sense! With their power draw, it should be well over ninety, if not one-hundred. This was only a rated optimal, after all. It wasn't unusual to exceed the rating if you had a good AI engineer.

"Identify cause of lower than normal efficiency," he ordered.

"Insufficient power," the computer told him.

"Just for reporting diagnostic data? Do a self-diagnostic! This shouldn't be hard for you."

The computer voice was quiet a moment.

Then; "Insufficient power."

"What the snez?" he burst.

This was nonsense! The system couldn't be this lacking in power!

Unless . . .

"Can you display received power to each process?" he asked.

The graph changed - dramatically. The amount of power going to the AI core was only a fraction of what was routed to it.

"Someone's re-routed this power and tricked the system," he breathed.

It dawned on him; their mysterious people who weren't supposed to be here, they were trained engineers themselves.

He could think of three potential ways to pull off just what was happening, though it'd take some work.

But who knew how long these people had been here? Even six hours might be enough time.

He should tell Lieutenant Pirra. She needed to know that someone out there had this kind of skill, to manipulate the system.

Should he contact her? He had to think on it a moment. She'd called for a blackout. But this was important enough, right?

He risked it. Connecting to the ship's communications, he figured if he routed it right, it might lead anyone watching the ship's systems to think it was coming from the bridge proper . . .

It gave him an error.

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Communications down.

He hissed out a breath in panic. He couldn't message her - their enemy must have done it. Now they were separated, alone. Easier to pick off!

A shiver went down him, and he realized that he had to break orders even more. He had to go find Lt. Pirra.

He'd barred the doors, engaging a heavy manual rotation lock that was only for absolute emergencies.

Going up to it, he took hold of the metal lever, putting his weight into it to twist them towards the open position.

The grinding of metal on metal and the massive thunk it made as it came unlocked staggered him. And if anyone was out there, they would have felt it, let alone heard it.

He had no weapon, but he grabbed his pad, holding it ready to throw. It wasn't heavy, and the edges on his had rubber nubs, but someone would surely duck if it was flying at them, right?

With the door open, he stepped out, letting out a half-strangled battle yell.

No one was there, and he let out a breath, shakes overcoming him. His orders were to stay safe, yet here he was, leaving safety - and defying orders!

This was going on his list of worst days. He'd tiered many of the worst days of his life, and this was definitely into the top list. There was a very real chance of dying here. Or worse . . . leviathan-related stuff.

This is why he hadn't gone into the field of neo-physics! Fusion engineering was always in demand and much safer.

This was a spin section, with gravity, and he crept carefully down the hall. He kind of wished it was in a zero-g area; moving was silent that way. But then, if there was trouble, he had more maneuverability when he could walk.

Passing by a door, he leered at it, half expecting it to open and a gun to be stuck into his face.

No such thing happened, and he moved on.

Where would Pirra be? He cautioustly set his system to scan passively for signals. He couldn't send any, but she was in Response - she might have figured out some crazy way!

And if she was, that meant the gunman might be able to triangulate her position.

She wouldn't know that he could potentially track them yet, though. So that meant he might be able to track her, too-

The door he'd just passed opened.

He spun, screaming, swinging his pad.

A moment too late he realized it could in fact be Pirra, but as he got a glimpse he saw that it most decidedly was not. It was a human male, his eyes wide, terror on his face, just like Tred felt. He looked supremely unhealthy, his face gaunt and eyes haunted, his skin taken on an unhealthy pallor.

Tred's pad smacked into his face, and the man recoiled, letting out his own pale cry. But despite the man's sallow look, the hand that grabbed Tred's wrist held on with a grip of iron.

Tred tried to struggle, yelling for help, calling for Pirra or someone.

The man said nothing, just grunting slightly. Still holding Tred's arm, he threw himself back into the room, his weight pulling in Tred after him.

"Nooo!" Tred screamed, as he felt the door behind him close.

*******

The bleeding had stopped on her arm, and Pirra felt thankful that it had only been a small piece of shrapnel rather than the actual bullet.

The man had only been ten meters away. If he'd taken even a moment to aim carefully, he could have shot her dead with ease.

That he hadn't spoke either to his panic or his desire; he might not have wanted to kill her. Or even hurt her.

She was missing too many puzzle pieces to solve this riddle. She needed more information.

Her system was now telling her that she'd only been here six hours, but it seemed to change at intervals one way or the other. Looking back, she was seeing a pattern emerging; the initial changes seemed to line up with the blackouts they'd been having - though she hadn't felt that for awhile.

But the system insisting they were on a date years in the past seemed to be coming more and more often. Whatever was causing these errors was accelerating.

After escaping from the gunman, she'd gone into a compartment that had once been crew quarters. The first had been sealed, from the inside, and she hadn't had time to force it. The next one had been unlocked, and that's where she had gone in.

To her surprise, the personal effects of the person were still here. She knew that this place had been evacuated years ago. In Response circles it had generally been considered to be the best idea the top brass had had with regards to the place.

It took either a colossaly dutiful, mad, or suicidal person to have taken a post here, had been the general consensus. Rumor had been that the station hadn't even been given an armory, on the fear that they might use the weapons on themselves.

Now, she realized, the people they'd seen on here all seemed to fit that description.

They had been evacuated, though. At least, there had been no one left on the station. She had seen a medical training film by a doctor who had been on this station, Halla Crube, and she'd seemed fine. An expert in tenkionic medicine. Her videos were a primer for all Response personnel.

This room hadn't been Crube's, though. The clothes were for a man, and at least a few sizes larger.

The medical kit in here had come in handy, even if it was just a standard issue kit. She attached it to her belt with a universal connector and looked around. There could be something else useful in here, and it seemed to have been undisturbed for years, judging by the stale smell her antenna picked up.

Opening drawers, she saw personal knick-nacks. Nothing useful. In another drawer, though, she found a small pen knife, which she pocketed.

Closing the drawer, she was about to leave, but caught sight of a pad half under the bed. Kneeling, she grabbed it and powered it on. It didn't even ask for a passcode.

Had the owner wanted for it to be found? She glanced carefully through the data, not connecting her system to it in case of a trap.

It seemed entirely normal, though; just a man's personal log.

In fact, his logs were still on it.

Her heart beat faster. There might be a treasure trove of data here.

The logs were locked, but that wouldn't be an impediment. The man's private information was vital to her mission, and she felt no guilt in accessing them. She'd just have to risk connecting her system to it.

For a moment, she got an error; mis-matched security data was keeping her system from connecting. It was more of a risk to override that, but before she could even order it the connection suddenly clicked.

"Show me the personal logs," she ordered. "Emergency Override Aleph-Gamma-Omicron."