Dr. Nicholas Rush stood at the ancient control center. It was research. It was always research. But tonight was different. Tonight, he was scanning the ancient catalogue for references to the aliens they had recently encountered. Perhaps they weren't the biggest threat -- after all, he'd been in their consciousness via the neural interface – but they were still worth spending some thought on. They were a problem; like any problem, he intended to face them armored with as much knowledge as possible.
The room was silent. It was the middle of the night; Eli had long since gone to bed, and the only people awake on board the ship were the skeleton crew that held down the fort during the graveyard shift.
Rush liked the solitude the night invited; though, night was a rather loose term these days. They were still keeping Earth time even though most days they weren't on a planet; without a sun, what was night really? On destiny, they were in eternal night; Rush – almost seriously – suspected that the complete lack of sunlight was changing his basic physiology. Sleep was no longer a necessity. In fact, he got a lot more done without it. It was far easier to roam around unhindered, unrestrained, without Eli asking questions or Young sticking his nose in places it didn't belong.
Rush was so wrapped up in his solitude, and the comfort it brought, that, he was very sensitive to any change in his current situation. He felt the slightest shift befall the atmosphere around him. The change was so minute – like a whisper – but it was there. He turned around and found Chloe.
She was wrapped in a blanket. Her hair was disheveled; she'd either recently been asleep or in the arms of her paramour.
"It's cold tonight," she said. "Colder than usual."
He turned back to his work.
"I haven't noticed any fluctuations in life support. Temperature regulation should be functioning properly."
She bundled up tighter. With a shiver, she replied, "Everything has to have a reason in your world, doesn't it?"
"Yes," was the simple (and honest) answer. "But," he said after some consideration, "I suppose that the things that are the most difficult to explain are the most intriguing – and the most worthwhile."
He glanced over his shoulder. She looked at him; there was a small hint of a smile on her lips. That was intriguing; more so, though, was the look in her eyes. They betrayed the fact that she knew more than a girl her age ought. And that, perhaps, was the most intriguing thing of all.