512. Sematic

Arn stood on the bridge, data slates floating as panels of light before his rigid frame. Clear, dark, reflective, his eyes watched each translucent slate of grids and dials and bars change from headache throbbing reds to a steady soothing rain of greens and blues. As if not believing the data before his eyes, Arn dipped his fingers into the light, holding puddles of numbers and charts and graphs swimming in his palms, the teal effervescent hues illuminating the sharp edges of his weary visage.

Crossing his arms behind his back, chest shield bowed and broad, a stance curiously introspective and defiant, he breathed in the data, holding it within his lungs as if to fortify his tired soul, to give subtenance to a body drained. Since the capture of Kyra, their vessel had been under surveillance, arms length, yet there, just sitting, felinesque, taunting, not with probes and feints, but with a subtle yet clear and unmistakable electronic presence. Why they had not attacked, as they had before, he found interesting, and, depending on the hour, disturbing. Sleep had not come easy, when it had come at all and he mused that the soldier in space differed little from the soldier on the ground. After all, there were no degrees of death. Nor were there second chances.

He looked again at his floating slates, each supplying information at the wave of a hand or blink of an eye. They must have known. His slates would be red. Blinking their presence. An unwanted guest. That could neither be ignored. Nor evicted. They were there. On board. Blinking in red. He knew it. They knew it. And he knew that they knew that he knew.

Now, they were gone. So it seemed. Gone did not always mean gone, a testament carved with las-fire upon the graves of the naive. Slates could be wrong. Slates could be manipulated, a tactic he had used and been used upon. Taking a cavernous breath filtered through mind circumspect, Arn stroked the groomed wave on his chin. With a twist of wrist, he re-ran his probes, doubling their algorithms, increasing their range, checking for any irregularities. Nothing. Green on green upon green. Standing on the bridge, the wide pitch of space before him, the silence of a cave his companion, he looked to see what could not be seen, he turned his head to hear what could not be heard. Unlocking his arms from behind his cloaked back, Arn steepled his fingers and exhaled. Then he commed Von.