Haunted (by Cass & Gage)

[Gage Silver 0]

Haunted

A Silver-Granger Log

 

After two weeks of frustration, calibration, hunting, and more frustration, nav looked like it just might be green on all fronts. Maybe. If they were lucky. Maybe even the captain’s fighter? The one that had a habit of going off the grid? Cass made a note to have New Topeka R&D merge her three LCARS into one, rubbed the stare out of her eyes and leaned back for a stretch.

 

“Status?” The voice of Ensign Silver jogged her back to civilization. “Guess nav is green?”

 

“Well, sir, might be in a minute,” she said, tapping a finger at the final diagnostic readout as she leaned forward to snatch the damaged isochips from the drawer. “Might want to take a look at these, sir. Took 'em from fighters in the bay.” She leaned back, tossing them his way. “Nav console wasn't communicating with 'em properly. Not sure what the problem is.” She stifled a yawn. “Anyway... I personally replaced ‘em.”

 

The screen stopped, asking for input. A quick tap and all went green. “And... we have communication with all fighters now.” Cass flashed him a satisfied grin...

 

...which he didn’t seem to notice. The warrant who was supposed to watch for these things, supposed to keep tabs on junior officers, take note, and deal indirectly with whatever problem, had totally missed the ensign’s absent look, the sag of his shoulders, his abnormal inattention and general all-around... uncharacteristic behavior?

 

“What?”

 

No joke. No lopsided grin. Yeah, he was definitely out of it.

 

“That would be an affirmative on the green, sir,” she filled in, adding, “And the... isochips? Maybe defective? Maybe a bad run?”

 

“Uh, right. Good,” he replied, obviously requiring a moment to play mental catch up. Not giving Cass or the chips a second look, he pocketed chips and pushed off the console. “Yeah, I'll look at 'em later,” he tossed over his shoulder as he strolled for the turbo-lift.

 

Several hours later, with vectors to New Topeka set and everything still green, it was break time. Cass wandered down to main engineering, concerned about two things and wondering which was more important: damaged isochips or Silver’s strange behavior.

 

After a few misdirections, she found him in the officer’s mess, staring at a sparingly filled tray of food with an expression that said he was anything but hungry.

 

“Sir?” Tray in hand, she approached him, unnoticed. She waited a minute before leaning into his field of vision.

 

His gaze rose belatedly - either she’d broken his concentration or he’d tried, unsuccessfully, to shun the company. “Yeah, Cass?”

 

“Mind if I join you, sir?”

 

Gage exhaled and setting down his fork, he leaned back in his chair and gestured at the opposite seat.

 

“Thanks,” she said, slipping into the chair. “It’s...” she flashed a grin, her eyes indicating the crowd, “... kind of busy this time of day.”

 

“Yeah, guess it is,” he remarked indifferently. He rubbed down the right side of his face and glowered as his hand met rough shadow, slowing to feel out its full encroachment across his jaw.

 

Cass kept her body language casual and dug in as she made note of the circles around his bloodshot eyes, the day-old shadow, the rumpled, well-used...? No. Downright dirty uniform. Definitely a Bravo* or Delta* code.

 

“Not hungry, sir?” She waved her empty fork at his untouched tray. “Cooks did an extra-special job today, maybe celebrating the first day out from Dip Central?” Dip was short for Dipper, in reference to the constellation, visible from earth, used to locate Polaris in the night sky. Shortening it to Dip gave it that added touch. Cass deployed the more socially repeatable term they’d used for North Star Docks. Other terms didn’t bear repeating in polite company.

 

Gage stared at her for a long minute or two; evidently, if not dangerously, short on witty replies.

 

“Think I’ll get some rack after this. Been a long deploy.” Finishing off the grilled steak, she turned her tray to attack the fresh green beans and mashed potatoes, but not before dousing them liberally with butter, salt, and pepper.

 

“Yeah,” he replied after a beat. Wearing a subtle grimace, he watched her dress her food, eat it, and then capitulated, pushing his tray away. He set his elbows on the table and closing his eyes, ran his hands into his hairline until his forehead rested in his palms.

 

Out of the corner of her eye, SPECOPS team member Marine Sgt Hector “Speedy” Gonzales came into view, headed their way. Cass waved him off, indicating with a subtle gesture that he should stick close in case she needed him. He gave a nod and sat at the next table, facing her.

 

“Been a while since you’ve had some, sir?”

 

Gage’s head immediately snapped up and he fixed an unmistakable glare on her. “What?” he asked sharply.

 

Cass nearly choked. "Rack, sir. Had some _rack_ lately?” After a long exhale she took another bite, noting a few more SPECOPS had filled the table next to them. They were eating, making small talk, joking, keeping their eyes on Gonzales while he covertly kept his eye on her. Not exactly what she had in mind.

 

“None of your business,” he retorted; evidently without thinking, given the grimace that followed.

 

“Roger that, sir. No disrespect meant.” Her tray turned again, she tackled the still-warm chocolate cake. “It’s just that most of us have been double- and triple-shifting, trying to fix what North Star messed up when they...” she air-quoted, “... fixed it. Been a mess for everyone.”

 

Gage pinned her with another long stare, lost for words. Finally yielding to reality, he rubbed his face again and stood. “I need some sleep.”

 

Cass stood when he did, not so much for protocol, but to watch him carefully. It seemed that his eyes were glazing over. As Silver apathetically dropped off his tray and walked for the exit, Cass crossed to Hector. “Keep your distance,” she whispered. “Just make sure he gets where he’s going.”

 

 

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*Bravo: International nautical code flag: “I am taking in, discharging, or carrying dangerous cargo.”

*Delta: International nautical code flag: “I am maneuvering with difficulty; keep clear.”

[Crash Calestorm 0]

Go off the grid in my fighter? Me? Naaaah.

 

The 'getting some rack' section? Smooth, very smooth.

 

Nice log Quick and Sundance, keep 'em coming!