Chapter 2: “Trial by Engine Fire”

Uneasy Alliances

The ship shuddered—a tortured, metallic shriek that vibrated through the primary coolant conduits. Alarms blared, their sharp cadence slicing through the hum of the jump drive. We were barely an hour into the first leg of our run, caught in the gravitic turbulence near Sector 7—exactly where Jaime had said not to go. Indira bucked, hurling me into the side of a console. My head snapped back. The ozone stung my nose, sharp and electric, burning away the comforting scent of oil and metal. The air now bristled with heat and the stench of melting polymers. My heart slammed a frantic rhythm into my ribs, trying to outpace the wail of klaxons and the chaos pounding through every red-lit corridor. The unsettling floral aroma, a sickly sweet undercurrent I couldn't quite place, grew sharper, amplifying the strain and the grim premonition of chaos to come. The chronometer's frantic ticking echoed the ship's dying whine, highlighting the passage of time and the weight of the unspoken stress. Dust motes, illuminated by the erratic flashing of the emergency lights, swirled in the recycled air, creating an unsettling sense of disorientation and impending doom. My new body, still a source of subtle wonder, now felt like a fragile shell under siege. The familiar ache in my lower abdomen was a dull, insistent throbbing, a constant reminder of the physical realities of my transition, yet now, it felt insignificant against the raw terror of the moment.

Mik, hunched over the main console, his face pale and etched with a controlled panic, didn't look up. He’d been working late, I had noticed earlier, his usual sarcastic detachment absent, replaced by a quiet intensity. He muttered to himself, his words lost in the rising cacophony of alarms, his usually sharp eyes bloodshot and strained. His hands—usually precise and steady—were moving faster, more erratic. The metallic clang of his wrench, usually a calming ritual, was now a jarring sound against the hiss of escaping coolant and the strained groans of stressed metal. The air around him hummed with apparent strain – a mixture of fear and desperation that seemed to cling to him like sweat. He hadn’t looked up since the alarms started. Cold sweat slicked his forehead. A deep, strong throb vibrated through the deck plates, a persistent reminder of Indira's precarious state. The ship's internal shuddering grew stronger, and my apprehension rose.

My focus sharpened; this wasn’t just a malfunction; it was a message. I moved towards the primary coolant loop, my movements deliberate and precise, my senses heightened. The pressure was stable, but the temperature was spiking rapidly, far faster than any normal system stress could account for. I accessed the secondary loop; it was overloaded, beyond its operational limits – a clear, deliberate attempt to push the system past its breaking point. This wasn’t an accident; it was a calculated attack. The emergency lights cast long, dancing shadows across the machinery, making the familiar space feel alien, unsettling. Steam hissed from a hairline fracture near the main buffer conduit, snaking across the floor in uneven bursts. The ship's internal rhythm quickened, a desperate, frantic pulse echoing the rising panic. That artificial scent grew pervasive, heightening the urgency and the grim solemnity of this moment, a sickening echo of betrayal. My hand went instinctively to the Star of David under my collar, the cool metal grounding me, a quiet prayer for strength.

His usual confidence cracked, revealing a raw fear that stripped away his bravado as the crisis escalated. Cold sweat slicked his forehead. A deep, strong throb vibrated through the deck plates, a persistent reminder of Indira's precarious state. The ship's internal shuddering grew stronger, and my apprehension rose.

He nodded grimly, his usual cynical detachment gone, replaced by a grim determination. He was fighting for his life. And, I realized, I was fighting for his, too. A deep, strong throb vibrated through the deck plates, a persistent reminder of Indira's precarious state. The ship's internal shuddering grew stronger, and my apprehension rose. The floral scent, a bitter perfume, seemed to cling to the air, a persistent, disquieting presence.

* * *

Growing Suspicions

The engine room buzzed, a low, steady throb that resonated through the deck plating and into my bones. Dim blue maintenance lights cast long, distorted shadows across the machinery, transforming familiar conduits into something alien and unsettling. It was colder at this hour, the chill finding its way past my thermal layers and sinking deep into my spine. The air was dense with the scent of warm metal, but underneath it, something new had crept in—a faint metallic tang, like old blood. I shivered, not from cold but from a pressure I couldn’t name, a premonition of the secrets this ship held. My hand trailed along a chilled conduit, the ridged texture grounding me against the static of nerves buzzing beneath my skin.

I keyed into the diagnostics console. The metal beneath my fingers was icy, biting through the residual warmth of my gloves. I didn’t need to run a recheck on the relays—not really. The recheck was a cover. It gave me access to the system shell. And the system shell gave me the logs. Not the logs everyone saw. Not the ones Mik or Denny reviewed. The real ones buried beneath layers like forgotten sins.

The steady click of keys broke the silence, constant against the ship’s deep hum. The air smelled of aging grease and electrical specters, a whisper of an arc long since cooled—a visceral reminder of just how old and stubborn this ship really was. But it wasn’t just usual degradation; something was off. Timestamps weren’t consistent; some access codes were malformed—partially overwritten; others had strange gaps that didn’t match maintenance schedules. The pattern felt wrong—engineered and designed to deceive.

A cold unease settled in my chest as cooling fans whirred like something frantic; their tone climbed with my pulse. The tremor beneath my boots was subtle—but insistent—a background discord that mirrored growing strain inside me.

And then without warning—it appeared.

An encrypted storage node—not a file—but a directory nested inside a diagnostics loop no one should’ve been running—it was buried so deep I almost missed it—that was precisely its point—not sloppiness—but precision—and concealment—with military-grade encryption wrapped around it like armor—whoever put this here didn’t want it found—but they made one mistake—they didn’t count on me—my fingers hovered over keyboard as nausea rolled through me—not from lack sleep but sudden deep emptiness following crisis—it felt hollow echo in chest—space where something once existed now gone leaving bone-deep weariness—I needed rest but wouldn’t—this too important—it someone's life—I drew breath slow controlled—the fear didn’t freeze me—instead focused sharp blade determination.

Every sound sharpened—the drone machinery creak metal cooling slight change pressure ship adjusted course—the deck plating's tremor deepened steady yet insistent—*Indira* had secrets—I wasn’t just going uncover them—I was going drag them light no matter cost—the pressure chest coiled same feeling back Midreach before told Lena truth—but this? This wasn’t about me—it about ship people on it things they weren’t supposed know—I might look small but hands strong enough for this—to piece together what broken just like pieced myself back together—and that scent floral edge sickly sweet stronger now—like something waiting noticed quiet accusation—no coincidence—not bad wiring or corruption—this intentional sabotage covered up—I didn’t try break encryption—not yet—instead plugged portable ISAC decryption unit scavenged derelict research vessel three years ago—I didn’t trust ship’s systems never had created hidden folder shell titled Unsent then copied node carefully quietly masked action calibration loop case anyone watching digital specter machine.

The rhythmic clicking keys steadied me—a pulse could control—I closed eyes letting hum ship wash over me colder now not just air silence between systems engine room felt watchful weighted something about shift ready meet head-on faint smudged grease print marked access panel near newly discovered node kind left hands working AGFD drive coolant systems subtle barely visible beneath layers grime—from very spot faint floral note emanated faint yet unmistakable sickening whisper Lena's perfume—my pulse kicked up no carelessness message or mistake either way meant bigger thought not just sabotage conspiracy intricately woven fabric ship Indira shuddered again in moment felt if ship itself holding breath silent witness unfolding deception.

* * *

Midnight Systems Check

The engines’ steady thrum vibrated through the floorplates, a constant presence in the quiet. Screens cast shifting halos of blue and green across the walls, illuminating my reflection—tired lines around my eyes, a testament to sleepless nights and burdens carried alone. I caught a glimpse of my face in the screen’s dim glow. The subtle reshaping, the softer lines. It was still a wonder to me, this reflection. A physical manifestation of who I truly was. But then I looked again, and the wonder returned. This was my face. This was me. My hands, still steady despite the residual tremor from the confrontation with Mik, rested on the console’s cool metal. That accustomed texture was an anchor. A faint scent of burnt coolant, a specter of the near-catastrophe, mingled with the deeper notes of oil and old grease embedded in every corner of the engine room. This ship was ancient, stubborn, and now, strangely disquieting. A low, barely perceptible tremor ran beneath my feet, a quiet discord against the engine’s pulse, a premonition of discovery. My focus had to remain laser-sharp.

I keyed into the diagnostics console, fingers moving with deliberate precision. I wasn’t here for routine maintenance. I was here to access the system shell. The ship’s systems were layered like geological strata—each patch, each update, built on the bones of something older, more fragile. I used the SHDI—Ship’s Heuristic Diagnostic Interface—to peel back those layers, isolating access logs from the last six weeks, searching for the ghost in the machine.

The rhythmic clatter of keys kept pace with the pulse of the ship. The keyboard, worn smooth from years of use, felt like an extension of my body. I tracked a heat signature—a specter of activity from the previous cycle. It hadn’t disappeared. It had moved. Slowly, methodically. Through three non-crew corridors. Always between 02:00 and 03:00. Whoever it was, they weren’t lost. They had a route. A purpose. A strange sense of recognition prickled beneath my skin. The specter of another mission. A buried memory. Lena’s voice rose unbidden in my mind:

“You can’t fix the world, love. Just your part of it.”

Grief hit like a cold blade—sharp, unexpected—yet I forced it down. Not now. This mattered. What if I was wrong? What if I was chasing shadows? What if it was just my grief whispering in the dark? I frowned. The crawlspace between Decks 2 and 3 was too narrow for an adult—especially one carrying gear. But a child? A child could make that path. The faint hiss of the AC system near the panel had a strange resonance—a redistribution of heat struggling to compensate for something unexpected. I ran a systems check, trying to steady my thoughts. Another faint pressure variation pulsed beneath the floor. The cooling fans picked up speed—higher than necessary for the current load. The continuous engine hum was a harsh reminder of how little margin we had for failure. I looked down at my tools, spread out like talismans. Cold metal. Accustomed weight. The floor’s shudder grew more pronounced, a quiet warning. The nausea wasn’t from exhaustion. It was the crash after the high. A hollow, post-crisis emptiness that left me bone-tired. The pressure deep in my abdomen pulsed, a dull throb. Yet I wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t. Not with this lead. Not when someone’s life might depend on it. This wasn't just a mission; it was a personal crusade, driven by the specters of my past and the fierce protectiveness that still burned within me.

The air itself felt dense, pressing against my lungs, each breath a conscious effort. A low, barely perceptible whine emanated from a nearby conduit—a piercing sound against the ship’s deeper drone. The faint tremor in the metal walls intensified, mirroring the rising unease in my chest. My ears popped intermittently, a stark reminder of the fluctuating pressure. An accustomed, inconvenient ache stirred in my lower abdomen, a private nuisance in this perilous journey. I pushed the thought aside; I needed to focus.

It was time to check the ducts. Not to capture. Not to flush them out. To see them. To acknowledge the presence everyone else overlooked—just like they’d overlooked Lena, and Maya, and Eli. I wouldn’t make that mistake again. This wasn’t about guilt anymore. This was about responsibility. I approached the access panel, my hand hovering near the latch. The ship’s hum vibrated beneath my boots, usually a comfort. But tonight, it only magnified the quiet determination rising inside me. The scent of ozone—an old arc flash, maybe—hung in the air. Tangled with grease and ancient wiring. Tangled with memory. And then it intensified again. That distinct floral scent. Overly sweet. Almost too perfect. Stronger near the panel. The same scent I’d found in Engineering. My stomach clenched. Not random. Deliberate. My heart pounded. The engines’ thrum deepened, a low growl, as if holding their breath with me. My hand hovered a second longer. This wasn’t about unmasking secrets anymore. This was about facing them. This was a rescue mission, a desperate prayer in the dark.

As I reached for the latch, something glinted faintly—just a sliver of metal near the base of the panel, half-swallowed by grime. A concealed latch. Or a compartment. Small. Deliberate. My pulse spiked. The engines’ thrum pressed harder against my chest.

“Now.”

My fingers curled around the latch. With a soft click, the panel released. The floral scent surged, heady and overpowering, a suffocating wave. The air behind the panel was thick, stifling, and hot. My headlamp flared to life, revealing a narrow passage—tight, claustrophobic, alive with tangled wires and conduit paths. The walls groaned with the stress of the ship, as if Indira herself was aware of what was happening.

And then I saw it.

Near the far end of the duct—a faint thermal echo. Steady. Small.

Too small for an adult.

Too rhythmic to be a glitch.

A child.

He’s here.

My breath caught in my throat. Indira beneath me no longer felt ominous. It felt like a heartbeat. Steady. Constant. A rhythm that would carry me forward. I tightened my grip on the panel edge. I’ve found him. A small, fragile life waiting for me.

* * *

The Stowaway

The designation was all it had: CL-9A. A mining platform clinging to a dead rock, orbiting a sun no one remembered. The air hung dense and unmoving, a gritty soup of pulverized ore, stale recycled oxygen, and the artificial sweetness of hydroponics straining to survive in a bay that hadn’t seen maintenance in decades. The platform felt exhausted, a monument to a forgotten future. The station’s power grid throbbed with a low hum, struggling against the high-pitched scream of overworked drills and the constant crackle of static from failing comms. Outside, the harsh sunlight scorched the cracked surface and heated the viewports, turning the scene into a mirage that shimmered with heat and silence, a deceptive calm before the storm. It made me want to get back to the accustomed, predictable hum of an engine.

Vos descended from the upper deck, his flight jacket half-zipped, engine grease smudged across his collarbone like a badge of inevitability. The datapad in his hand looked heavier than it should have, his fingers drumming against it with barely restrained agitation. His face was all strain—no wry smile, no muttered commentary. Just quiet calculation. He scanned the horizon. Then me. Then away again. His jaw clenched.

This is a bad idea, his eyes seemed to say. But we don’t have a choice. This is a trap.

He gripped his stunner tighter, the knuckles white.

The workers moved with slow, practiced resignation. Dust and grime stained their uniforms. Shoulders slumped. Faces hollowed by fatigue and sun exposure. Eyes that had long since stopped hoping flicked toward the guards, then quickly back to their tasks. Every motion was calculated, careful. Too careful. As if they feared what might happen if they moved too fast—or too slow. Their very movements were a silent scream of despair. This wasn’t just oppression. It was trauma, calcified into routine.

Guards patrolled in staggered intervals, their stunners gleaming far too bright against the dust-choked backdrop. Their expressions were blank, yet their eyes flicked constantly between the workers—nervous, alert, anticipating something violent. The whole atmosphere hummed with strain, dense and heavy like the dust that coated every surface. This wasn’t a mining operation. It was a prison, a silent, suffocating trap.

The drone’s hum deepened, now sounding more like a warning than a function. Then I saw them. A woman—late thirties, maybe. Lines of exhaustion carved into her face. She clutched something close to her chest, half-hidden behind a stack of crates. Her clothes were threadbare, sun-bleached, patched with care and desperation. Her body showed strain, yet also fierce protectiveness, a primal instinct. A younger figure, unnervingly quiet, was partially obscured by her side. Her limbs too thin, her gaze too tired, too quickly averted. In her hand, a jagged scrap of metal—a weapon or maybe just something solid to hold in a world where nothing felt safe. I felt the memory of my children like a punch to the chest—her hollow eyes, her too-thin frame, that strange intelligence in her stare. She'd seen too much. More than I had, perhaps. Still almost a child. So terribly vulnerable. So tragically accustomed.

Mik wiped sweat from his brow, revealing the faded glint of a ring worn almost to smoothness. He adjusted his grip on his datapad, jaw tight, and glanced at me. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—a dawning understanding, as if he, too, recognized the fragility of the moment, a silent acknowledgment of the danger. This wasn’t a coincidence. It wasn’t just a delivery. It was a scene. And I was part of it. Whether I wanted to be or not. My gut twisted. Dread settled low in my spine, a cold, heavy stone. The woman’s eyes flicked toward the guards. Then back to me. The message was clear: “Don’t look away.” The guards were watching now. Not casually scanning. Watching her. Watching me. Their grips on their stunners tightened, their eyes narrowing with suspicion. They were waiting. For a signal. For an excuse. The shudder underfoot intensified again. It wasn't the ground moving; it felt human, emotional. The drone continued to hum, its presence now almost unbearable in the charged silence. And in the center of it all: the woman, the small figure. Their vulnerability, their exposure, felt like a quiet accusation against the universe’s indifference.

© 2025 by Grace Ann Hansen