Sleep was two minutes away when the master-at-arms found him.
The stand-down had come eighteen hours late, after Tyrol pulled the gang off the line for eight hours of mandatory rack most of the gang already down, the fleet outside a ragged sprawl of civilian hulls, mining ships, passenger liners, cargo haulers, strung together by jump coordinates and the promise that Galactica would keep them alive.
Fifty-three ships.
Fifty thousand souls, more or less.
The number sat in Marko’s gut like a stone, and he refused to think about the other fifty billion.
Thinking about them meant stopping, and stopping wasn’t an option yet.
“Specialist Dabrowski.” Marko turned.
The man in the hatchway was average height, average build, wearing sergeant’s pins and the kind of quiet that meant he’d already decided something.
His face was forgettable except for his eyes, which were not.
“Sergeant.” Marko kept his hands loose, his posture neutral.
He was tired enough that standing upright took intention.
“Prewitt Kord.
I’m compiling after-action statements while the details are still fresh.” Kord’s voice was polite, almost gentle.
“You were part of the frame-47 fire suppression party.
I’d like to hear your account.” Marko’s chest went tight, but his face stayed still.
“Yes, Sergeant.” “Let’s step somewhere quieter.” Kord led him to a berthing compartment two frames over, empty except for the low hum of ventilation.
He stayed on his feet, so Marko did the same.
Kord pulled a small notepad from his pocket actual paper, not a data slate and clicked a pen.
“Walk me through it,” Kord said.
“The alarm went off.
What did you do?” He gave it short and factual.
“Responded with the damage-control party.
Chief Tyrol ordered a seal on the forward hatch.
I recommended we extract through B-deck instead.” “Why?” “The fire was moving faster than the seal.
Safer route was aft.” “How did you know the fire was moving that fast?
The compartment was sealed.” Marko had prepared for this question.
He’d had eighteen hours to sand the answer down to something a man could believe.
“I could hear it.
The ventilation was pulling wrong, and the frame was heating unevenly.
The seals were starting to go.” Kord wrote something.
His pen moved slow and deliberate.
“The crewman who was with you Specialist Randa said you called the route before anyone opened the hatch.
He said you knew where the men were trapped.” “I made an educated guess based on the duty roster and the compartment layout.” “He said you gave a time estimate.
Three minutes forty seconds.” Randa had been paying closer attention than Marko liked; the knowledge sat cold in his chest and nowhere on his face.
“I estimated based on the fire’s probable spread rate.” Kord looked up from his notepad.
His gaze was steady, curious, not hostile.
“You estimated it down to the second.” “I rounded.” “You saved two men and kept a magazine from cooking off.
That’s exemplary work, Specialist.
I’m not questioning that.” Kord’s tone didn’t change.
“I’m trying to understand how you did it.” Marko met his eyes.
Now he had to sell it not with volume or decoration, just with the plain truth worn smooth.
“I’ve been doing damage control my whole enlistment, Sergeant.
You do it long enough, you develop a feel for how things break.” “A feel.” “Yes.” Kord wrote again.
The silence stretched.
Marko could feel the fog at the edges of his vision, the Bearing leak he couldn’t fully stop.
He was tired enough that his body wanted to sway, and he locked his knees to keep still.
“How long have you been on Galactica?” Kord asked.
“Two years.” “Before that?” “Rotated through a civilian orbital platform doing industrial safety work.
Transferred when I enlisted.” “Why’d you enlist?” The question landed sideways.
He gave it nothing.
“Wanted steadier work.” Kord nodded slowly, like he was holding the answer up to a light Marko couldn’t see.
“The men you saved said you were certain.
Not guessing.
Certain.” “I was sure enough to act.” “But you’d never seen that compartment on fire before.” “No.” “And you’d never run that specific extraction before.” “No.” “But you were certain the route would work.” Marko felt the trap in the repetition the same question asked three ways, testing for gaps.
He kept his voice level and gave the same answer in different words.
“I assessed the risk and judged the route sound.
It held.” Kord watched him for a long beat.
Marko held the stare, added nothing.
The silence was doing work he couldn’t see.
“You’ve got a reputation on the deck,” Kord said finally.
“Chief Tyrol sends you to the jobs the book doesn’t cover.
The ugly ones.” “The Chief uses his people where they’re effective.” “And you’re effective.” “I do my job.” “You do it very well.” Kord clicked his pen closed and slipped it into his pocket, but the notepad stayed in his hand.
“In a fleet where the enemy looks like us, Specialist, a man who’s never wrong is a valuable asset.
It’s also exactly what we’re all afraid of.” Marko let the word sit a beat before he answered, giving it nothing.
“I’m not a Cylon, Sergeant.” “I didn’t say you were.” Kord’s tone stayed courteous, almost kind.
“I’m saying that in this fleet, we’re going to have to ask hard questions about good people.
It’s not personal.
It’s necessary.” “Understood.” Kord tucked the notepad away.
“That’s all I need for now.
Thank you for your time, Specialist.
Get some rack.” He stepped past Marko toward the hatch, then paused.
“One more thing.” Marko turned.
“I’ll be keeping an eye on the deck’s most reliable men,” Kord said.
“For their own protection.
There’s a lot of fear running through this fleet, and fear makes people stupid.
If anyone gives you trouble come find me.” It sounded like a courtesy.
It wasn’t.
“Yes, Sergeant.” Kord left.
The hatch cycled shut, and Marko stood alone in the empty berthing compartment, the ventilation humming low and constant.
He’d given a clean statement.
Every answer was defensible.
Kord had nothing he could act on.
But Kord had noticed.
And Marko understood, now, what the overlay had made him understood it the way you understand a bulkhead seal has failed, not with thought but with the cold certainty that comes after the pressure drops and before the alarms catch up.
In a fleet where the enemy wore human faces and the only test was a detector that no one had built yet, being right never made him safe.
It made him exactly the thing everyone was looking for.
The same accuracy that had saved two men and kept a magazine from killing thirty more had just painted a bearing on his back, and the man taking that bearing was polite, methodical, and absolutely certain that nobody was ever just lucky.
Marko walked back to his bunk.
His hands were steady.
Breath even.
He lay down, closed his eyes, and did not sleep.
The Hard Return had a face now.
And it was watching.