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The abandoned freighter blew at 13:05, Cascade Central Time. No casualties. The only life-forms in the area had been Inspector Ellison, the Cascade Galactic Law Enforcement Explosives Team, and the bomber.
Ellison sat in the waiting room of the nearest planetary hospital and tried to focus on waiting. It wasn’t his fault they’d come so close to losing people today. His warning had meant that they’d all lived. Ellison had never been so grateful that Banks had a “no questions in the field” policy.
Didn’t fix what was wrong with Ellison himself, though. At first, he thought it was just after-effects of the explosion. The glare of the nitro fuel going up all at once and the sonic impact of a lightyear-wide explosion would wreak havoc on an unprotected system.
One minute, he could barely hear the mutterings of the other people in the waiting room. He was wrapped in thick wool and he was insulated from the entire world, alone with his slowly-building panic. The next minute was filled with Commander Banks’ voice, roaring loud in Ellison’s ears, even though he knew that Banks was a hallway away and gently encouraging their newest team member through his first post-explosion physical.
*
The little interview cubicle stank of bleach and disease. He missed the waiting room.
“Your name tag says McCoy,” he said, barely able to make the letters out as his vision went awry. The smooth name tag was suddenly pitted and scratched. McCoy’s—McKay’s?—voice made his vision clearer, forced the crags to return to smooth, non-porous plastic.
“The correct Gaelic pronunciation of my family name is McKay,” the doctor said, and Jim Ellison smelled a lie. The man’s hands were coated ink and real, old book-paper. Glue and cardboard and the mustiness of stagnant academia. No blood, no silicone coating. Not a doctor.
“A teacher?” he asked. A mix of suspicion and skeptical hope curled together in his chest. Who would bother pretending to be a doctor just to talk to him? “A historian?” The man flinched, and Jim reached out, holding the man by the barest edge of his white coat.
“An anthropologist,” the man said, nearly softly enough that Jim missed it, but his hearing was suddenly out of whack again, and the beginning of the man’s explanation nearly sent him running from the room. He was still clutching the man’s coat, so he didn’t get far.
“Loud,” he gritted out. The man smiled at him and spoke again in a whisper.
“I think I can fix that.”
The hope in his chest loosened, burned a little hotter, squashed the suspicion and used it as a pillow. At 20:37, Cascade Central Time, Jim Ellison found a reason to believe in someone other than himself.