CHAPTER XVII

Damon wouldn't spend another moment in his bunk. He'd spent enough time under Dr. Mathinson's orders to rehab his injuries. A week was more than enough for him. What more torture he needed than to be alone with his thoughts? The raid was done and Aiden was dead. There was nothing he could've done to change that now, but why did it have to nag at him so much? He'd been apart of failed operations before, and he'd seen more than enough people—innocent people—killed. Maybe the stakes just felt different. If you failed an op, you could always roll it up, forget about it, and try again. But that was when he had the full support of the UNSC. Now it was just him, captain Anderton, and a handful of combatants that weren't even trained soldiers. Another good man was dead, a life snuffed out by this pestilential war. It was all the more reason to redirect his focus elsewhere. There was still an open investigation, after all. He needed to know who left those bloody prints outside the camp. It may've been nothing, but he didn't want to rule anything out.

He got dressed in his utilities, laced his boots, and headed out. It was lunch hour, so the building was thankfully sparsely populated. Damon wasn't in the frame of mind to deal with people right now, to smile and reassure them as he saw them. He didn't have it in him, but maybe the mood would improve. Meal rations had been boosted within the last 48 hours, drawing closer to how they were in the beginning. More food meant less complaining and higher morale. He figured it was Rey's way of keeping the public blissfully unaware of their colossal failure. Full bellies doused the inquisitive. With two years left, why not give the people something to be happy about?

The corporal reached the clinic, uncharacteristically being greeted by a teenage boy sitting behind five-foot white table that served as Donna's station. He walked up to the boy, hands deep within his pockets with a perplexed expression.

"Hey, Ethan, where is your mama?"

The boy, Ethan, toyed with a pencil in his hands and gestured his chin of peach-fuzz over his left shoulder. "Doc Mathinson sent her home. She hasn't been feeling well for the past few days. Some type of stomach bug. I'm filling in."

Damon arched a brow.

Ethan waved his hand dismissively. "I know what I'm doing. Mom taught me everything I need to you. And from what I'm seeing..." His brown eyes scanned sheet of paper on the table before looking back up at the corporal. "… you don't have an appointment."

Damon shifted his feet and sighed as he stroked his left brow with his finger. "Boy, is Dr. Mathinson available?"

Ethan leaned back in the plastic folding chair and nibbled on the pencil's end. "Perhaps."

"Ethan…," Damon grumbled, his patience thinning. "I have an important matter to discuss with him. Give me a yes or no and we'll go from there."

Ethan rolled his eyes and checked the appointment sheet. "You have ten minutes before his next appointment. I suggest you make this quick. Oh, and before I forget." He reached under the table, fishing out a bottle of hand sanitizer and placing it atop the table. "Mom's orders."

Damon squirted a drop of sanitizer in his hand and walked around the table. He found Mathison in the inner rooms, dismissing a patient with a few words of instruction before the doctor saw him. There was always a look on Mathinson's face that Damon couldn't quite define when he saw him. It was always a melting pot a placidity, fatigue, restlessness in his eyes, and acute frustration. In all that, he always remained steady in his mood.

"Damon," Mathison greeted. He waved him over. "Come in."

The corporal obliged and entered the room, passing the patient whose face was flushed with fever, a wet cough, and pale skin. Damon regarded the patient with a guarded smile, keeping a healthy distance. The last thing he needed was become sick. He'd spent enough time in bed.

"If don't mind if I eat lunch while we talk," Mathison said, closing the door behind them. "A man can't survive from crackers and water for breakfast."

Damon shrugged his shoulders. "I don't mind."

"Good." Mathison thoroughly washed his hands, unpacking his lunch after he'd dried his hands. He unwrapped a sandwich and a took a generous bite.

"I see Ethan is your new receptionist," Damon commented.

Mathison laughed through his nose between chews, nodding. "Yeah, he's been our alternate for the past few months. Donna taught him well. If she's not careful, she'll be out of a job. The kid is good. Keeps my appointments straight and the staff likes him."

Damon grunted. "Maybe. How's Donna? He said she wasn't feeling well."

Mathison shook his head, his right cheek inflated with his lunch. "She's not. The problem with living off-world is that the environment is artificial, not natural. The body's immune system becomes weaker, so when infections roll in, there isn't much defense. We have a few contagious cases now, but not enough to cause an epidemic. But..." He balled up the plastic wrap and threw it in the trash. "… I suppose you're not here for small talk. Are your stitches holding? You shouldn't be walking this soon yet."

"I needed to get moving," Damon rationalized.

Mathison untwisted the cap from a bottle a water, casting his eyes at Damon before taking a small sip. "Y'know, I didn't want to say anything at the time, but I can't help seeing that you returned a man short from the raid. Not to mention all of you looked like hell."

Damon vented a strong exhale and looked down at the floor. He was hoping Mathison wouldn't ask, but it was only natural that we would. Mum had been the word since they returned, as directed by Rey; but it didn't take long for word to spread that Aiden was dead. Raids were dangerous, and it wasn't the first time they'd lost someone during one. Still, Aiden was the first death in quite some time. It was a feeling that felt better when you didn't have to feel it.

"What's more to say? He's dead. It was a bad raid." Damon changed the subject. He had to. "I'm here about what we discussed before I left: the inventory."

Mathison pulled the bottle down from his mouth with furrowed brows. He paused for a moment before he perked up. "Ah, yes! I remember. I'm glad you reminded me."

He stepped down from the stool he was sitting on and retrieved his data pad behind him. Swiping across the screen, he found what he was looking for. He took a step closer to an intrigued Damon and showed him the screen.

"To be honest with you, I didn't think much of your request when you told. I keep a strict inventory of everything I use, but then I went back and compared it to my previous count."

"And?" Damon followed up.

Mathison nodded. "You were right. I am missing some supplies, more than I'd like. From my count, I'm missing one box of large adhesive pads, one roll of sutures, antibacterial spray, two 24-count bottles of antibiotics and pain suppressors, one syringe, one empty plunger, one roll of large gauze, and one box of small adhesive bandages. Truth be told, I'm not too out of sorts about most of this, but losing the antibiotics and pain killers is problematic. We don't have many."

Damon reviewed the supplies that were stolen. "Is there a chance that these supplies were used on us when we returned and you just forgot to remove them from the inventory? I just need to be sure about this."

Mathison thought about the inquiry. It was legitimate, although unlikely. "In the case of an emergency, then it's possible. All of the materials used that aren't accounted for in such a situation are filed under acceptable losses. However, no one of you required emergency-level attention when you returned, no offense. We were able to take our time, so the nurses, aids, and myself were able to subtract the supplies. As I said, with the exception of the antibiotics and pain meds, it's not really a big deal. What was taken was mainly out of surplus. The UNSC set us up for the potential long haul, obviously too long right about now."

Damon inwardly grumbled. He didn't care for Mathison's cavalier attitude. "Colin, this is a big deal. You were a victim of theft. Regardless of our situation here, we need to maintain order. We can't have people stealing, especially medically supplies. Does your staff have access to everything?"

"Of course," the doctor replied with ease. "They work here. The only thing they don't have access to is the medicine locker. Only I have the code for that."

"And you're positive one of them hasn't watched you enter the code? That's possible, y'know. We need to rule everything out here."

Mathison raised his brows. He returned to his stool, working his jaw from side to side as he stared at Damon with pending inquisition. "What's this really about? I doubt you're overly concerned about petty theft. I admit we don't need lawless renegades; we had enough of that already, but I feel there's more to this. First you ask for an inventory, which you've never done, and now we're talking about law and order. I know you better than that, Damon Vasher. Level with me."

Damon wished he had a mirror to peer into, for he was confident that his poker face was as transparent as fresh glass. The doctor was perceptive as hell. Maybe he had a right know, and Mathison wasn't the type to run his mouth about confidential matters. Still, there didn't need to be a plethora of people with inside knowledge. He needed to keep a low profile until he was sure he could make a viable connection.

"Look, all that I can say is that someone stole from you. Now, whether they were acting alone or had help remains to be known. They know where your supplies are kept, the code to the medicine locker, and most concerning, when to steal them. That means they know your schedule, when you're away, and perhaps more."

The concern was engraved on Mathison's face. The corporal had made some valid points, a few that he hadn't considered. To have the supplies stolen felt violating, and the entire office suddenly felt insecure and vulnerable. "And you think it's a member of my staff?"

Damon shrugged. "I don't know yet, but I'm not ruling them out. From what I've learned, the supplies stolen were used to treat an injury. What else can you tell me… strictly medical?"

Mathison sighed, gathering this increasing thoughts. "That this person suffered some type of injury serious enough to require stitches and avoid possible infection. I'm thinking a laceration. What's more is that I believe this person, if they weren't aided, has an above average knowledge medical procedures to treat themselves. I'm guessing that rules out most the people here. Some of these folks wouldn't dare stitch a wound without help. What I don't understand is why steal? Hell, I practically live here. If they needed help, I would've given them care."

"That's because this person doesn't want to be found," Damon highlighted.

"I don't like it." Mathison switched off his data pad, holding it as he folded his arms in thought. "I pride myself on being able to help people, but with material dwindling—or stolen, in this case—it limits how much I could do. To turn people away, who need proper care, doesn't sit well with me. I need you to find the person or persons responsible for this. I pray it's not one of my own people, but I'm thinking we're not dealing with your average thief here. If this was a junkie, I'd expect more careless behavior. Nothing was broken, the office is intact."

It was a good observation from the doctor, Damon thought. He was right, which meant he could reduce number of candidates he had in mind. That didn't put his mind at ease, however. It meant that there was someone in the camp that was more than just a displaced refugee, which wasn't a stretch of the imagination. The people came from various backgrounds, professions, and had lifestyles that Damon didn't know anything about. He certainly didn't ask, didn't see the need to; but now he had a reason. Now he just needed to determine if this was a credible threat or not.

"I'll handle this," he told the doctor before leaving.

The living quarters gave Damon pause. He didn't visit often, but it never ceased to reinforce the illusion to maintain appearances. The civvies targeted him almost instantly, their eyes glossing him over with faded optimism and uneven confidence. Damon hated it. Rey encouraged him to mince words with them every once in a while, to give them a nugget of assurance that the UNSC was still here and that someone there to help them. By now, he figured that psychological tactic was outdated and worthless. It was the same noise the UNSC's PR team pushed out, ensuring the general public that the Covenant was being dealt with and there was nothing to worry about. All the while, the outer colonies were being evacuated and subsequently glassed. Maintain appearances.

Damon refocused, finding himself running on autopilot toward a destination that wasn't predetermined. He was here for a reason, and it wasn't to shake hands and tell folks that everything was Gucci and gold. The corporal went down the line of vehicle hubs, 12x12 cubes that were now cleared out and converted into homes. He figured they missed the barracks, the climate control, and the measure of privacy they received. Too bad they didn't have the power to spare for it anymore.

A few kids ran out in front of him, probably no more than ten or twelve. They entertained themselves with a ball of solid rubber, likely taken from the trailers stacked in the rear of the building. The ball rolled to his boots. The kids looked at him, frozen in place as if they expected to be scolded or shot. Damon winced. Only God knew what those kids had probably dealt with in previous camps before landing here. He picked the ball up, gently tossing it up and bouncing it against the tip of his boots, to his knees, and back to his knees. One of the kids cracked a crooked, toothy smirk. Damon smiled back at him and rolled the ball back to him. The pair of children resumed their play and he continued his advancement until he reached his intended hub. It was the last one in the row, being one of the few hubs with the rollup door still intact. Of course, as expected, the door was closed.

Damon knocked on the hard aluminum twice and waited. The faint smell of cigarette smoke tickled his nose as he heard movement inside. Eventually, the door rolled up with Aaron standing behind it. A lit cigarette hung between his lips, his eyes nearly pinched shut from the smoke curdling up to them. He removed it from his mouth and blew out the smoke from the side of his mouth. Taking a step out of the hub, he looked to his left and then to his right before centering his eyes back on Damon.

"Uh… you lost, brother man?"

"No, brother man, I'm not," Damon replied. "I'm looking for you. You got a minute?"

Aaron took another pull, vented the smoke from his nose. "Perhaps. Cop a squat."

He went inside his compartment and took a seat on his cot, opposite of an unplugged mini fridge and an assortment of canned food stacked haphazardly against the wall. A few bloody bandages were discarded next to his cot.

Damon checked to see if anyone was watching him. Everyone else seemed to be minding their own business, but that didn't mean they weren't against eavesdropping. He stepped inside and leaned against the opposite wall. "I need your help with somethin'."

Aaron's brows furrowed. It was strange enough to have a surprise visit from a man that, before now, had never visited his hub. Now he wanted his help? He leaned forward and interlocked his fingers, staring up at Damon with suspicious curiosity. He hoped to God it wasn't another over-the-top plan to miraculously save them from this frozen hell. There had been one too many of those in recent memory. He had the scars to prove it that were still fresh. "What's this about?"

Damon leaned out, checked one more time. Clear. He turned to face Aaron. "I need your help finding someone."

Aaron retrieved a fresh cigarette and lit it. "Find whom?"

"I don't know yet," Damon shrugged. "There's a situation I'm investigating. I thought I could use your expertise."

Aaron pointed to himself, almost surprised. "My expertise?"

"Yeah, you were a cop, right?"

"Military police," Aaron clarified.

"Tomato, tomato," Damon waved carelessly. "It means I can use your skills. I'll give you the skinny. During the day cycle, before the raid, I was on patrol and I discovered a hole in the perimeter fence. It was cut open. Now, I've walked that perimeter like clockwork and I know it like the birthmark on my inner thigh—"

"Vasher, I don't wanna know where your birthmark is," Aaron interjected with disgust. "Let's stay on subject."

Damon rolled his eyes with a sigh. "Anyway, I'd know if something was different. What's more is that there was blood, human blood. From where the fence was cut, I noticed some bloody bootprints that led off into the camp. I don't know if this is serious or not, but someone is here that wasn't here before. If it's an outsider, which I highly doubt because the next camp is over 700 kilometers away from us, it could be someone that's not a friendly."

Aaron stopped smoking his cigarette, intrigued. He sat up, clearing his throat into a serious tone. "What are you basing this on?"

"I had a hunch, so I talked to Mathison before we left for the raid. I asked him to make an inventory of his supplies within the last 72 hours or so. In this climate, it's hard to tell how fresh the blood was, but this person was definitely injured. They'd need some type of medical attention, right? Turns out, my hunch was right. Mathinson said he's missing bandages, meds, and more. All unaccounted for. I'm guessing this person snuck into the clinic, stole his stuff, and potentially patched themselves up. If I was injured, I'd just visit the good doctor and get help. This person didn't. They're hiding. Why? That's where I am at right now."

Aaron absorbed the information in silence for a moment, digesting it. It was certainly more than he expected, which made sense to why the corporal was cautious in his approach. Assuming Damon was pulling at strings or acting merely out of boredom to keep his mind occupied from the raid, Aaron played along. Maybe he was on to something. It would be interesting, nonetheless.

"Let's start by answering some basic question here. What other details do you have where this happened? Were you able to follow the tracks to a point of interest? Do you recall how much blood was at the scene? We've lost contact with the neighboring camps years ago, so if they did manage to travel all the way here, there would be no reason this type of behavior. That narrows it down to us. Can you answer any of those questions?"

"I wasn't able to get a detailed look at the scene," Damon freely admitted. "A few minutes later, I was called away by DEV with a message from Rey. That message turned out to be about the Engineer, so I'm sure you know where the rest of that story goes."

"Yeah, a little too well." Aaron toyed with the lit cigarette between his fingers before putting it back into his mouth. He stood up, slinging his jacket over his shoulder and retrieved his boots. "Let's gear up, Vasher. Before we go any further, I need to look at the scene. From there, I can create a baseline and we can dig into this thing."

Damon scratched the scruff on the side of his face, his eyes unable to find a point of focus. "So…, you're helping me out on this one?"

Aaron stubbed out the cigarette underneath his boot and blew out the smoke. He finished lacing up his boots and stood up straight. "Looks that way, brother man. This may be something or nothing. I'm interested. C'mon, let's take a look."