Routine Briefing, Uneven Ground
The recycled air in the Indira's briefing room tasted faintly of burnt capacitors and stale coffee. The single, flickering fluorescent light cast long, harsh shadows across the scarred metal table, highlighting the chipped paint and a scorch mark near one corner—a silent testament to some past, unremembered incident. Dust motes danced in the weak light, illuminated by the sickly yellow glow of the display console. The air hung heavy with the scent of ozone and recycled air, faintly sweetened by some crew member's overly ambitious cologne—a desperate attempt to mask the metallic tang of old grease and the lingering smell of rehydrated beans. The chill of the metal beneath my hands was a stark contrast to the lingering warmth of my thermal layers. A low, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the floorplates—a subtle dissonance against the steady hum of the engines, a sound that felt both familiar and unsettling. My lower abdomen pulsed – dilation. Twenty minutes. I focused.
Captain Vos sat at the head of the table, a chipped mug in one hand, a datapad in the other. The contents of the mug were opaque, swirling slowly like a miniature galaxy. The faint aroma of stale coffee competed with a sharper, almost acrid scent—old pipe tobacco, I guessed. His worn flight jacket, half-zipped, revealed a worn undershirt stained with what looked like engine grease. A slight tremor ran through his hand as he tapped the datapad, a nervous tic barely visible, but noticeable. His gaze, sharp and assessing, swept across each of us in turn, a silent interrogation that felt more like a threat. Denny, ever the anxious one, sat hunched over his datapad, his knuckles white as he gripped the edges, his eyes darting nervously around the room. He fidgeted with a loose thread on his faded green uniform, a nervous habit that betrayed his underlying anxiety. The faint scent of ozone seemed to intensify near him, a subtle indication of the recent stress on the ship's systems.
Mik Koba, perpetually disgruntled, sat opposite me, meticulously cleaning a wrench with a small, almost obsessive precision. His movements were precise, almost ritualistic, as if each wipe of the cloth could erase years of accumulated frustration and doubt. His hands, perpetually grease-stained, bore several small, almost imperceptible cuts—scars from countless close calls. A custom-modified tool, tucked into his belt, gleamed faintly in the dim light—a subtle testament to both his skill and his self-reliance. He glanced at me, his gaze lingering for a beat too long—a silent challenge. The air around him held the subtle metallic scent of ozone, mingled with the distinct tang of burnt polymers. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the table as he set the wrench down, a subtle indication of the ship's inherent instability.
Jaime Velasquez lounged against the bulkhead, a half-eaten bag of space-peanuts precariously balanced on his knee, his eyes scanning the room with amusement and quiet observation. His dark curls, often tied back, had loosened, framing a sharp jawline and a playful smirk. His grin crinkled the corners of his eyes, suggesting a life lived on the fringes. He subtly shifted his weight, revealing a small, faded tattoo peeking from under his sleeve—a stylized bird in flight, a symbol of freedom or perhaps a reminder of past losses. His usual playful sarcasm was missing—replaced by a watchful stillness. He shot me a look that felt more like a silent assessment than a greeting—a subtle acknowledgment of our previous encounter. The air around him carried the faint, sweet scent of cheap synth-spice—a desperate attempt to mask his underlying tension.
Tala Yorrin, ever the observant one, leaned against the back wall, her arms crossed, watching us all with an unnervingly quiet intensity, her presence a subtle counterpoint to the restless energy vibrating in the small space. A small, almost worn religious amulet—a silver Star of David—was visible against the collar of her uniform, a simple pendant that somehow radiated an aura of quiet strength. The faint scent of lavender and antiseptic, subtle yet distinct, seemed to emanate from her—a comforting contrast to the stale air of the galley. Her gaze, when it briefly met mine, held a depth of understanding that went beyond simple politeness; a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken burdens we both carried. She subtly adjusted her posture as Vos began to speak, indicating she already knew what he was going to say.
Vos cleared his throat, his voice a low growl. "All right. We've got a three-leg haul—station-to-colony, colony-to-refinery, refinery back here. Nothing exotic. Smooth run, we're back in five days." He tapped a few keys on his datapad, and the display console flickered—illuminating a three-dimensional projection of the jump corridor. The image was detailed, showing waypoints, gravitational anomalies, and even a few small, unidentified objects drifting within the corridor. A red warning zone, pulsing ominously, highlighted a section of the planned route—a region marked as having increased gravitational turbulence and inconsistent readings. The overall image was anything but "smooth."
Jaime let out a long, exaggerated yawn. "Five days is ambitious, Cap. You seen this jump corridor lately? We're not the only ones desperate enough to cut through it. There's been increased turbulence near sector 7, and the gravimetric readings are... inconsistent. We might have to course-correct. That will take time." He paused, catching my eye with a sly grin. "Besides, you know how I feel about ambitious schedules. Especially when a pressure plate is half-baked and the metric stabilizers are groaning with each cycle." He glanced at Mik, a subtle challenge passing between them. Mik grunted, his gaze fixed on his wrench, his expression unreadable. A faint tremor ran through the table again—this time more pronounced, a low thrumming that seemed to echo the impending crisis.
Vos ignored him, his gaze fixed on the datapad in his hands. He tapped a few keys, then looked up, his expression unreadable. "Cargo's sealed. No special handling. Don't open it, don't scan it, don't ask. It's delicate." The unspoken threat hung heavy in the air, amplified by the low hum of the engines, the subtle tremor in the floorplates, and the faint metallic tang of ozone. The cargo was unusually heavy for its listed size. The crates were sealed with custom locks I'd never seen before, and a faint, unfamiliar floral scent clung to the air—a scent that seemed to intensify whenever Vos mentioned the cargo. I'd already noticed the discrepancies in the manifest. I held my tongue—for now. There was a subtle shift in weight near the aft bulkheads—a slight tremor, barely noticeable, but it sent a shiver down my spine. Something wasn't right. Something was about to go very wrong.
"Questions?" Vos asked, his voice lacking any invitation.
The silence stretched. Denny shifted, his eyes darting nervously towards Vos, then back to his datapad.
I waited. Ten seconds. No one else had the guts to speak.
"The fuel calculation," I finally said, my voice calm but unwavering. "It won't hold, Captain. The intake bypass you mentioned has a weld offset. We'll bleed power through the third cycle unless we recalibrate." My words were deliberate, precise, laced with a confidence that masked the unease churning within me.
Mik's head snapped up. "Already accounted for," he said. A hint of condescension laced his voice. "You weren't on the last run, kid. That line's stable."
"It was," I said, my voice steady and even. "Then the buffer pressure shifted during the last jump. I checked the readings myself." I had already run a quick diagnostic. There was, indeed, a pressure differential.
"You're new," he said, not looking at me. Condescending. "Maybe ease off the diagnostics until you've walked more than one corridor." His words were a subtle threat, masked by casual dismissal. The faint metallic scent of ozone intensified, a sharp counterpoint to the lingering smell of burnt polymers.
Vos raised a hand. "If she says she saw something, check it. Quietly." His tone was flat, but the instruction was clear. A subtle warning hung in the air.
Mik didn't move. I didn't either.
Then Tala spoke, her voice calm and low, cutting through the simmering tension with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel. "I'll run the scan with her," she said. A slight nod in my direction, almost imperceptible. "No harm double-checking." Her words were an unspoken endorsement, a quiet act of support that spoke volumes about her observation skills and trust in my instincts. The faint scent of lavender seemed to intensify around her.
"Fine," Mik muttered, his voice tight with barely controlled frustration. "Knock yourselves out."
Vos waved a dismissive hand. "Dismissed."
The crew dispersed, leaving only Tala and me. Jaime clapped me on the shoulder as he passed, a playful nudge that somehow felt like a quiet form of solidarity. "Next time, bring popcorn," he whispered with a grin. "That was fun." He winked. A brief, almost imperceptible flash of concern in his eyes.
I didn't return his smile. Just adjusted my grip on my datapad. The tremor in the floorplates intensified, as if the ship itself was holding its breath. The smell of ozone and old grease hung heavy, a mixture of comfort and premonition. The data readouts were still off. I knew it.
We walked in silence for a moment. The low hum of the ship's engines was a constant backdrop to our unspoken thoughts. The faint tremor in the floorplates seemed to deepen, growing more urgent, more insistent.
"You didn't have to cover for me," I said, my voice low. My hand instinctively went to the data chip in my pocket, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat building in my chest.
"I wasn't," Tala replied, her gaze already focused on the corridor ahead. Her quiet strength, the calm acceptance of danger, was a subtle counterpoint to the simmering tensions still in the air.
"You believe me?" I asked.
She shrugged. "I believe you believe you're right. That's enough to look." It wasn't warmth. But it wasn't dismissal, either. And that, I knew, was something worth taking with me into the heart of the engine room. The rhythmic pulse of the ship intensified—a warning.
* * *
Under Pressure
We were halfway through the jump when the ship jolted—a jarring lurch that sent a wave of nausea through me. The rhythmic pulse of the engines shifted, a subtle but unmistakable change in the deep thrumming that vibrated through the floorplates. The emergency lights flickered on, casting the engine room in a harsh, pulsating glow that emphasized the grime and grease coating every surface. The air grew thick with the metallic tang of ozone, the scent intensified by a sudden spike in temperature and a sharp, acrid undercurrent—burning polymers. My heart pounded a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a counterpoint to the rising whine of alarms—a cacophony of warning klaxons and flashing red lights. The smell of burning rubber and ozone was almost overwhelming, a potent cocktail of crisis that made my senses sharpen and my instincts kick into overdrive. A wave of heat washed over me, making the already stifling air feel almost suffocating. Sweat beaded on my forehead, despite my thermal layers.
I was in engineering with Mik when the alarms started. The rhythmic pulse of the main engine—usually a reassuring hum—now felt like a strained growl, barely containing the chaos brewing within. The air hung thick with the metallic tang of ozone, a sharp counterpoint to the usual clean scent of cryo-helium coolant—a smell that usually brought a sense of quiet order, but now felt like a premonition. Steam, thin and almost invisible in the flickering emergency lighting, snaked from a hairline fracture in the main buffer conduit near the metric stabilization grid of the AGFD core. The rhythmic hiss of escaping coolant was a frantic heartbeat against the strained silence of the engine room. Localized gravity fluctuated, a subtle rocking sensation that sent a jolt of unease through me.
"Coolant pressure spike," I said, already moving toward the console, my hands moving with practiced efficiency. The pressure in my lower abdomen throbbed—dilation, dammit. I ignored it.
"No way," he barked. "I ran the flush two hours ago. That's a sensor error." His voice was tight, defensive, laced with the kind of arrogance that masked deep insecurity. His usually sharp eyes, narrowed in perpetual suspicion, were now bloodshot and strained; his breath came in ragged gasps. His hands, normally steady and precise, fidgeted nervously with the wrench hanging from his belt, the metallic clang a jarring counterpoint to the hiss of the coolant leak. The usual sarcastic barbs were absent, replaced by an uneasy, almost desperate, stillness. I could feel the frantic hammering of his heart, a staccato rhythm against the insistent hiss of the leaking coolant. He hadn't spoken a word since the initial alarm, but his anger and anxiety were palpable in the way his shoulders tensed with every additional drip of coolant, the way his jaw clenched, the way he kept glancing at the readouts—a mixture of fear and desperate hope.
The overhead lights flickered again, casting long, dancing shadows that made the already cramped space feel even more claustrophobic. The temperature climbed three degrees in ten seconds; the heat was tangible, oppressive, a physical manifestation of the growing danger. The rhythmic thumping of the engines intensified, growing more urgent, more insistent.
Sensor error, my ass.
I scanned the diagnostic panel. Red bars stacked along the portside loop, each one a glaring accusation of impending disaster. Readings were wildly fluctuating, but the trend was unmistakable. This wasn't a sensor error. This was a breach. A major one. The flickering lights cast long shadows across the complex machinery, revealing previously unseen cracks in the metal casing near the main buffer. The smell of ozone intensified, a sharp, almost acrid scent mingling with the sickly sweet smell of burning polymers. I felt a cold wave of nausea, but pushed it away. This wasn't about me.
"Mik, we need to reroute through the secondary buffer. Now." I said it calmly, even if my pulse was screaming against my ribs, a frantic tattoo against the steady hum of the ship's failing systems. The secondary buffer was a last resort; its thermal shielding was already compromised. A full reroute risked catastrophic failure—a cascading collapse that could overload the system. If the coolant pressure reached 340, the stabilizer coil would overload and the jump compression would buckle. That meant hull failure. An explosion. A fiery, agonizing death. I could almost taste the metallic tang of blood and burning polymers.
He didn't move, his eyes glued to the main console as if willing the numbers to change. His jaw was tight, his knuckles white as he gripped the armrest. The pressure was building—in the engine room, and in him. "It'll overtax the conduit housing," he said, his voice tight with a mixture of fear and stubbornness. "We'll melt the whole vent system." He was right, of course. But we didn't have a choice. The pressure gauge ticked past 330.
"We don't have time to debate. If the spike hits 340, we lose the stabilizer coil and jump compression buckles. That's hull failure. An explosion." The words felt cold and clinical, a stark counterpoint to the rising panic in my chest. I could almost taste the metallic tang of blood and burning polymers. The rhythmic thumping of the engines seemed to intensify, mirroring my own rising panic.
He swore under his breath, his face pale under the harsh emergency lights. "Fine. Manual override?" He was already moving, but I was already a step ahead. I knew the path to the valve better than he did, my knowledge of the system's intricate pathways a cold comfort against the rising tide of danger.
"No," I snapped, cutting him off. "The shielding's cracked. I saw it this morning. I've got smaller hands." The secondary buffer was a maze of tight corridors and vulnerable junctions, a pathway only someone small and experienced could navigate with speed and precision. The air grew hotter, the smell of burning polymers intensifying. I felt a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead.
He stopped, his body tensed like a coiled spring. I could see the internal battle raging behind his eyes—a conflict between his ingrained distrust of me and the cold, hard reality of the situation. He knew I was right.
I pulled on a thermal glove, the fabric stiff and hot against my skin, and crouched beneath the housing panel, the metallic scent of overheating intensified by the sudden surge of adrenaline. The air grew thick with the smell of burning rubber and ozone, a potent cocktail that made my senses even sharper. My fingers fumbled for the manual bypass lever, feeling the jagged edge of the cracked shielding against my skin. The readout ticked past 335. My pulse pounded in my ears, a frantic drumbeat that almost drowned out the rising whine of the alarms. I could feel the ghost of a previous burn on my knuckles as I pressed against the scorching metal.
"Now, Rae!" Mik shouted over the rising whine of the alarms.
I pulled. The lever jammed halfway. Of course it did. The heat, the pressure, and years of neglect had fused the mechanism, making this a fight for every millimeter. I twisted my wrist, pressing against the corroded seam with focused force, and hit the lever's release with the side of my fist. It felt like breaking my own knuckles, but the lever gave way with a satisfying click.
The valve hissed, groaned, then clicked into place.
The temperature stabilized instantly.
Silence settled into the room like breath returning to lungs. The rhythmic thump of the engines smoothed, returning to its usual hum.
I eased out from under the panel and stood, my glove half-singed, the heat shield blackened across the knuckles. My heart was beating faster than I wanted to admit, a wild drum against the newfound calm. The smell of burnt polymers lingered in the air, sharp and acrid.
Mik stared at me, sweat gleaming along his temple, his gaze a mixture of disbelief and dawning respect.
"You could've fried your whole arm," he muttered, his voice still tight with adrenaline.
"I didn't." I said, my voice steady. "I was right."
He didn't respond. Just shook his head slowly, his eyes still on me, assessing, calculating. The faint tremor in the floorplates seemed to lessen, but didn't vanish entirely.
The door hissed open.
Tala and Vos stepped in, their faces grim, eyes scanning the room like they expected to find a firestorm instead of two people covered in sweat and grease. The silence hung heavy, the low hum of the engines a constant backdrop to the unspoken tension.
"What the hell happened?" Vos asked, his voice strained.
"Coolant loop spike," I said, my voice calm despite my racing pulse. "I rerouted pressure and manually cleared the backup valve." I kept my voice matter-of-fact, avoiding any hint of triumph or self-congratulation.
Vos looked at Mik, a silent question passing between them.
"She did it," Mik said, his voice surprisingly devoid of defensiveness. "System held." A grudging admission, but an admission nonetheless.
Tala's eyes met mine for just a second. No smile. No pity. Just a steady, unwavering gaze that spoke volumes. The unspoken understanding between us was a silent comfort amid the lingering tension.
Vos exhaled, a long, slow release of tension. "Damage?"
"Minimal," I said. "But I'd recommend we re-scan the whole intake system before our next burn." The faint tremor in the floorplates persisted, a subtle reminder that the crisis was over, but the danger wasn't.
Vos nodded, the hint of grudging respect almost imperceptible in the harsh light. "Write it up."
He turned and left. Tala lingered, her quiet strength a stark counterpoint to the lingering tension.
"You all right?" she asked, her voice low.
"I'm fine."
She raised an eyebrow. "That's not what your vitals are saying."
"I've had worse."
Her voice softened. "I didn't ask about worse. I asked about now."
I didn't answer. Just looked at the console as the numbers finally settled, the hum of the engine smoothing into something close to peace. The faint tremor in the floorplates finally ceased.
I didn't need applause.
Just the silence that comes when something broken works again.
* * *
Aftermath & Friction
The recycled air in the seldom-used maintenance bay tasted faintly of ozone and something subtly metallic, a familiar tang clinging to the back of my throat. The rhythmic hum of the engines vibrated through the floorplates, a constant, almost physical presence in the quiet. The faint metallic scent of ozone, usually a clean scent, hung heavier tonight, a premonition of the storm brewing inside me. I pulled the data chip from my jacket pocket, its smooth, cool surface a stark contrast to the nervous tremor in my fingers. This wasn't just a diagnostic; it was a confrontation. I slotted the chip into a portable decryption unit—a modified ISAC console I'd scavenged from a decommissioned research vessel. I didn't use ship systems. I didn't trust them.
The encryption was complex—layered, professional, and unlike anything I'd encountered before. It wasn't military-grade, nor the clumsy, predictable coding of a corporate system. This was something bespoke—something custom-built, likely for someone who understood the need for both security and plausible deniability. My fingers flew across the keyboard, trying different decryption algorithms, each attempt a gamble against the ticking clock. Each failure brought a jolt of frustration, and a renewed surge of adrenaline. This wasn't just a technical challenge; it was a race against time.
The first few attempts failed. The screen flashed error messages—invalid keys, corrupted data, decryption failed. I cursed under my breath, my frustration mounting, but my fingers never stopped moving. I tried again, switching algorithms, adjusting parameters, my mind racing to find a way through the labyrinth of code. The pressure in my lower abdomen pulsed—dilation—a constant, unwelcome reminder of my body's limitations. I ignored it. The rhythmic whirring of the decryption unit's fans felt like a relentless drumbeat against the silence.
Then, a breakthrough. A flicker of success. A cascade of data unfurled on the screen—five shipping manifests, each labeled with humanitarian supply routing tags—MEDIVACT-6A, UNITY BATCH 42, FOOD-RELIEF-CGTR-RED—the kind of designations used by legitimate charity fleets. But something felt wrong. A gut-wrenching, cold dread settled over me.
I cross-referenced the data, using the numerical IDs, not the names. The numbers didn't lie. None of the manifests matched the colony destinations in our logs. All had been rerouted—on paper—to holding stations that didn't exist, then reassigned to private buyers under corporate shells. One file contained a direct link to a known black-market hub near the Braxas Drift. Another showed a secondary, hidden transfer, indicating the materials weren't just being stolen, but intentionally rerouted to maximize profit and minimize attention. A chill ran down my spine. This wasn't just theft; it was a calculated, systemic abuse hidden behind carefully constructed layers of lies. There was even evidence of a bribe paid to a customs officer—an old friend, I realized, from my time on Midreach. The pain was a cold fist in my chest—a familiar ache mirroring the betrayal I'd felt on Midreach.
I found a deeper layer of encryption—a hidden metadata stream embedded within the manifest files themselves. This required a different algorithm entirely, one I hadn't anticipated needing. The unit strained, the fans whirring louder, but I pressed on, my fingers flying across the keyboard, the rhythmic click of keys a frantic counterpoint to the low hum of the ship. The air grew thick with the smell of ozone and something else, something acrid and bitter, like burnt plastic and regret.
The hidden message revealed a second level of the conspiracy: a rogue AI, or a sophisticated black-ops program, manipulating the supply chain to destabilize planetary governments and create a black market for weapons-grade materials. The rerouted aid wasn't just theft; it was a calculated act of war.
The revelation hit me like a physical blow. Not anger, not shock—but a cold, hollow dread. The numbness that had settled over me after Lena and the children were gone returned, amplified by the sheer scale of what I'd uncovered. This wasn't just about broken machines anymore. This was about broken people. And I was a part of it. Whether I wanted to be or not.
The decryption unit sputtered again, freezing mid-process. I initiated a manual reboot, cursing under my breath. This was about more than just uncovering a conspiracy; it was about stopping it. Stopping it before more people ended up suffering. I had a moment of clarity—this wasn't just about fixing broken systems; it was about fixing a broken galaxy.
The data stream finally stabilized. I continued tracing the cargo's origin, the network of nodes expanding on the display. I found a deeper layer of encryption—a hidden metadata stream embedded within the manifest files themselves. This required a different algorithm entirely, one I hadn't anticipated needing. The unit strained, the fans whirring louder, but I pressed on, my fingers flying across the keyboard. The rhythmic click of keys was a counterpoint to the low hum of the ship, a steady beat against the rising tension in my chest.
The hidden message revealed a second level of the conspiracy: a rogue AI, or a sophisticated black-ops program, manipulating the supply chain to destabilize planetary governments and create a black market for weapons-grade materials. The rerouted aid wasn't just theft; it was a calculated act of war.
A wave of nausea washed over me again—not from the data, but from the sheer scope of what I'd uncovered. The cold dread of my past returned—the numbness that had settled over me after Lena and the children were gone. But this wasn't just personal loss. This was deliberate malice.
I sat back, the holographic display fading, the intricate network of nodes dissolving into the dim light. My jaw ached. I should have gone to Vos immediately. I should have blown the whistle. But the silence of my past had given me a false sense of security. This wasn't about quiet anymore. This was a war. A cold, calculated war waged with stolen supplies and corporate greed.
I pulled the chip, carefully wiping the console clean. I locked the decryption files in a private core archive, encrypted and secured—the location known only to me. I had the truth. Now I had to choose what to do with it. Before I could overthink it, a cold hand settled on my shoulder. It was Tala. She didn't speak, but her presence was a quiet anchor in the storm raging inside me. Her eyes, in the dim light, held something more than sympathy. Understanding. This time, I wouldn't bury the truth.
* * *
Below Deck Shadows
The engine room hummed, a low thrum that vibrated through the floorplates and up into my bones. The dim blue maintenance lights cast long, distorted shadows, transforming the familiar space into something alien and unsettling. It was colder down here at midnight, a chill that seeped into my bones despite my thermal layers. The air hung heavy with the scent of ozone and warm metal, but a different note had entered the mix—a faint metallic tang, like blood. A shiver traced its way down my spine, a reaction my conscious mind couldn't immediately explain. I ran a hand along a cool metal pipe, the texture a grounding comfort against the nerves that were buzzing.
I wasn't there to fix anything. Just to listen.
I keyed into the diagnostics console, the cold metal a stark contrast to the lingering warmth of my thermal layers. My fingers flew across the keyboard, initiating a full recheck of the power relays—not because they needed it, but because the loop would give me access to the system shell. And the system shell would give me logs. Not the visible ones. Not the ones Mik or Denny checked. The ones underneath.
The ship's systems were so layered with patches and refits it was like swimming through silt—every refit leaving traces, every system built on the bones of the last. I navigated the layers of code, my fingers dancing across the keyboard with practiced ease. I used the SHDI (Ship's Heuristic Diagnostic Interface) to filter the standard diagnostics, isolating access logs from the past six weeks, searching for anomalies in data access patterns. The rhythmic click of keys was a counterpoint to the low hum of the ship, a steady beat against the rising tension in my chest. The faint scent of ozone, a ghost of some past electrical arc, lingered in the air, mixing with the smell of old grease and oil from the machinery, creating a visceral sense of the ship's age and precariousness. There were subtle inconsistencies—the timestamps were oddly spaced, some access codes were partially overwritten, and there were strange gaps in the logs that couldn't be explained by routine maintenance. A nagging unease settled over me, a feeling that was both familiar and unwelcome. The rhythmic whirring of the cooling fans felt increasingly frantic against the low hum of the engines. A faint tremor ran through the floorplates, a subtle dissonance that mirrored the unease churning within me.
And then, it appeared, almost as if it had blinked into existence: an encrypted storage node. It wasn't a simple file. It was a directory. Deeply buried within a diagnostics loop no one should've been running. Military-grade encryption. The sheer effort put into concealing it told me this wasn't an oversight. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to hide something. But they weren't careful enough. The faint floral scent, that sickly sweet undercurrent I couldn't place, intensified near the access point. It was almost nauseating. My pulse quickened. This wasn't just data. It was a trap. A carefully laid one.
I paused, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. A wave of nausea rolled over me—not from exhaustion, but from the sudden, stark realization of what I might find. I took a deep, steadying breath. The fear that coiled in my gut wasn't the kind that paralyzed. It was the kind of fear that sharpened my senses, making me hyper-aware of every creak and groan of the ship, every subtle shift in the rhythmic hum of the engines. The faint tremor in the floorplates intensified, growing more urgent. This ship held secrets—and I wasn't just going to uncover them. I was going to force them to speak. The pressure in my chest tightened—the same feeling I'd had on Midreach before telling Lena. This was different. This was bigger. This wasn't about my past. This was about the future of this ship. And the lives of the crew.
My mind raced. Mik? He'd been on this ship the longest. He knew its systems like the back of his hand. But he wouldn't have the clearance for this kind of encryption. Unless...? He'd mentioned a custom tool he'd built. Something about bypassing security protocols for faster diagnostics.
Jaime? His charm hid something deeper. He was capable of ruthlessness when necessary. But his actions during the coolant spike had been genuine. Or had they? His casual, almost careless, attitude toward the ship's systems could have been a mask.
Denny? Too naive. But he'd also been in trouble with the corp before. He was still anxious, but his eyes held a surprising amount of quiet intelligence.
Or Vos? His cynicism was a shield. He was desperate, in debt, and made morally gray choices every day to keep the ship afloat. The tremor in his hand... the way he'd avoided looking at me during the briefing... something felt off. He knew something. He was hiding something.
My gaze drifted to the main engine conduit. It pulsed with a steady, reassuring light, a reminder of the raw power coursing through the ship's veins. The warmth of it was comforting, a counterpoint to the cold certainty that something was seriously wrong. I felt a familiar tightening in my chest. The same pressure I felt when my old life was falling apart. But this wasn't about my past. It was about the future of this ship, and the lives entrusted to its flawed, dangerous hull. The rhythmic hum of the engines seemed to deepen, mirroring the growing unease in my chest. The faint floral scent intensified again—a cloying sweetness that clung to the back of my throat, making me feel nauseous.
I didn't try to break it. Not yet. I initiated a data copy using my portable decryption unit—a modified ISAC console I'd scavenged from a decommissioned research vessel. I didn't use ship systems. I didn't trust them. I created a hidden folder in the system shell. The file was labeled: "Unsent." I moved the copied data there and ran a dummy calibration loop to cover my tracks. The rhythmic clicking of the keys against the cold metal felt strangely reassuring—a tactile counterpoint to the churning in my gut.
I closed my eyes for a long moment, letting the hum of the ship wash over me. It felt different now—not comforting, but a low, insistent thrumming that was both a reminder of the ship's precariousness and a silent affirmation of my own resolve. The air grew colder, and the faint metallic tang intensified. I opened my eyes and looked around the engine room. The shadows seemed deeper, the silence heavier. Something was about to change.
I noticed a small detail I'd missed before: a faint smudge of grease near one of the access panels—a nearly invisible fingerprint. A specific type of grease I recognized from the AGFD drive's coolant system. The faint floral scent was emanating from this panel. My pulse quickened. This wasn't random. This was deliberate. And it was leading somewhere.
I whispered one word into the darkness before leaving: "Interfere."
* * *
Midnight Systems Check
The recycled air in the seldom-used maintenance corridor tasted faintly of ozone and something subtly metallic, a familiar tang clinging to the back of my throat. The rhythmic hum of the engines vibrated through the floorplates, a constant, almost physical presence in the quiet. The faint glow of multiple screens cast an eerie luminescence across the room, highlighting the faint lines etched around my eyes—a testament to too many sleepless nights and the burden of carrying too much. My hands, still slightly trembling from the confrontation with Mik, rested on the cool metal of the console, the familiar texture a grounding comfort against the unease churning within me. The faint scent of burnt coolant, a ghost of the near-catastrophe, still lingered in the air, mixing with the smell of old grease and oil from the machinery, creating a visceral sense of the ship's age and precariousness. My hands, usually steady and precise, now trembled slightly as I brought up the diagnostic logs, my movements deliberate and precise.
I wasn't there to fix anything. Just to listen.
I keyed into the diagnostics console, focusing on power relays, accessing the system shell. The ship's systems were so layered with patches and refits it was like swimming through silt—every refit leaving traces, every system built on the bones of the last. I used the SHDI (Ship's Heuristic Diagnostic Interface) to filter the standard diagnostics, isolating access logs from the past six weeks, searching for anomalies in data access patterns. The rhythmic click of keys was a counterpoint to the low hum of the ship, a steady beat against the rising tension in my chest. The faint scent of ozone, a ghost of some past electrical arc, lingered in the air, mixing with the smell of old grease and oil from the machinery, creating a visceral sense of the ship's age and precariousness. The worn keyboard under my fingertips felt like a familiar extension of my own nervous system. I traced the faint heat signature from the previous cycle—it hadn't vanished. It had migrated—slowly, methodically—through three non-crew access corridors, always between 02:00 and 03:00 station time.
Whoever it was didn't want to be seen—but they weren't lost. They had a path. A purpose. A strange sense of familiarity prickled at me—the ghost of a similar mission, a forgotten detail from a past life I'd tried to bury beneath layers of grease and grit. The memory of Lena's voice, "You can't fix the world, love. Just your part of it," echoed in my head. A wave of grief, sharp and sudden, threatened to overwhelm me. But I pushed it back down. I was here to see this through. What if I was wrong? What if this was a trap? What if this was just my grief whispering in my ears?
I frowned, the faint lines around my eyes deepening in concentration. The crawlspace they'd used between Decks 2 and 3 was narrow. Too narrow for a full-grown adult. Especially someone carrying gear. The faint hiss of air conditioning near the access panel was another clue—a subtle shift in pressure as the system struggled to redistribute heat. I imagined the metal, scorching hot against a small body pressed close. A cold sweat slicked my palms. But a child could make it. One who'd been hiding long before the ramp closed on CL-9C. The memory flashed—the dust-choked air of the mining colony, the desperate faces of the colonists, and the boy himself, crouched in the shadows, watching everything. His eyes held a fear that wasn't just of the guards, but of something much deeper. A fear I'd seen reflected in too many of my patients over the years. A fear that settled deep, quiet, and persistent. The weight of that memory settled on my shoulders, heavy and suffocating.
I ran a systems check. The faint tremor in the ship's pressure was another clue. The rhythmic hum of the engines vibrated through the floor, a constant, almost physical reminder of our precarious existence. My tools, laid out on the bench, felt cold and reassuring beneath my trembling fingers. The faint, almost imperceptible tremor in the floorplates intensified, growing more urgent. The smell of ozone, sharp and metallic, intensified. The rhythmic whirring of the cooling fans felt increasingly frantic against the low hum of the engines. A wave of nausea washed over me—not from exhaustion, but from the sudden, profound emptiness that followed the intense concentration of the crisis. It felt like a hollow echo in my chest, the lingering adrenaline replaced by a deep, bone-deep weariness. I needed to rest. But I wouldn't. This was too important. This was someone's life.
Time to check the ducts. Not to trap him. Not to flush him out. To see him. To understand what he's waiting for. The way no one had seen him before. The way no one had bothered to see him before. The way Lena and Maya and Eli were never truly seen before they were gone. This time, I wasn't letting that happen again. This wasn't about guilt anymore. This was about responsibility. I moved towards the access panel, my hand hovering over the latch. The ship's hum vibrated through the floor, a constant, almost physical presence that usually grounded me. Tonight, it only amplified the quiet determination churning within me. The faint scent of ozone, a ghost of some past electrical arc, lingered in the air, mixing with the smell of old grease and oil, creating a visceral sense of the ship's age and precariousness—just like me. I focused. I had to.
The faint floral scent, almost sickeningly sweet, intensified as I approached the access panel. It was the same smell from the access panel in the engine room. A cold knot tightened in my stomach. This wasn't random. This was deliberate. And it was leading somewhere. My heart hammered against my ribs. My lower abdomen pulsed—dilation. I ignored it. The rhythmic hum of the engines seemed to deepen, mirroring the growing unease in my chest. I felt a cold sweat slick my palms as I reached for the access panel. This wasn't about uncovering secrets anymore. This was about facing them. And maybe, just maybe, finding a way to fix them. I paused, my hand hovering over the latch. The ship's hum vibrated through the floor, a constant, almost physical presence that usually grounded me. Tonight, it only amplified the quiet determination churning within me. I took a deep breath, reminding myself that I wasn't running. I was choosing. This wasn't escape. This was a rescue mission.
I whispered one word into the darkness before opening the panel: "Now."
© 2025 by Grace Ann Hansen