Soren woke to the sensation of weight.
Not the physical kind alone—though his limbs felt heavy against the mattress—but a deeper, muffled density, as if the space between thought and action had thickened overnight. Consciousness did not arrive cleanly. It drifted in slowly, sluggish and indistinct, blurring at the edges as though wrapped in layers of soundless fog. His first breath was shallow, unintentional, drawn more out of habit than awareness, and it took several seconds longer than usual for him to realize that his eyes were open.
The ceiling above him stared back, familiar in shape and color, yet strangely distant. The lines where panel met panel seemed softer, less defined, and when he blinked—once, then again—the sensation did not fully recede. His head felt… muffled. Not aching, not sharp, but thick, as though his thoughts were moving through water rather than air. Each attempt to focus lagged a fraction of a second behind his intent, and the delay unsettled him more than pain ever would have.
The hum was louder.
That was the next thing he noticed.
It pressed into the room with a presence he could not ignore, resonating through the walls, the floor, the narrow bed frame beneath him. The Aurelius had always spoken softly, her vibration a constant backdrop rather than an intrusion, but now the sound seemed closer—less distant, less diffused. It filled the space behind his ears, reverberating faintly through bone, threading through his chest with each slow breath.
Soren lay still and listened.
The hum was steady. Unbroken. No fluctuations, no stutters. Nothing that suggested alarm or malfunction.
And yet, it felt louder than it should have been.
He shifted slightly, testing his body one sensation at a time. His ankle responded immediately—a familiar, dull ache blooming at the joint as soon as he adjusted his weight. It was there, present and undeniable, but less sharp than it had been the night before. The improvement registered distantly, filed away as a small, objective good amid the haze that clouded everything else.
That's something, he thought, though the thought itself felt slow, as if it had to push its way forward.
He exhaled and turned his head toward the window panel.
Light spilled through it cleanly, unobstructed, washing the far wall in pale tones that spoke of open sky and calm conditions. The clarity of it struck him immediately. There were no streaks of cloud, no distortion from particulate drift or atmospheric interference. The sky beyond was pristine—too pristine, almost. The kind of clarity that should have been reassuring, yet instead stirred something faintly uneasy at the back of his mind.
He watched it for several seconds, letting his gaze linger.
From the angle of the light alone, he could tell the time was late. The brightness had climbed higher than it would have been during early hours, the hue warmer, more settled. Nearing eleven, he guessed. Too close to midday for comfort.
That thought sharpened something in him.
Soren's gaze snapped—slowly, but with intent—toward the slate resting on the table beside his bed. He reached for it with more effort than usual, fingers feeling slightly uncoordinated as they brushed the smooth surface and pulled it closer.
The display lit at his touch.
10:35
For a moment, he simply stared at the numbers.
Then the weight in his chest shifted.
The meeting.
His meeting.
It usually began at eleven.
Soren pushed himself upright with a quiet exhale, the movement slower than it should have been, his body lagging behind his urgency by a fraction of a second. The room swayed faintly as he sat, not enough to alarm him but enough to demand acknowledgment. He waited it out, feet planted on the cool floor, breathing evenly until the sensation passed.
Late.
Considerably late.
He rolled his shoulders once, then again, coaxing stiffness out of muscles that felt reluctant to respond. The hum seemed to swell briefly as he moved, then settled back into its steady rhythm. His ankle protested as he stood, but again—less than before. The ache was present, persistent, yet muted, as if the night's rest had done more good than he'd expected.
That's good, he told himself again, clinging to the certainty of it.
He moved toward the bath with quiet efficiency, guided more by routine than thought. The act of preparation grounded him—small, familiar steps anchoring him in sequence where his mind still struggled to align. He keyed the panel, waited for the water to warm, and stepped beneath the spray without hesitation.
The first rush of water stole his breath.
Cooler than expected, it struck his shoulders and spine with sharp insistence, sending a brief shudder through him before warmth followed. He closed his eyes and let it run, head tipped forward as water traced its way down his neck and back, soaking into fabricless skin and carrying the lingering heaviness with it.
Slowly—incrementally—the fog began to thin.
The sound of the water filled his ears, steady and singular, pushing the hum of the ship into the background. His thoughts, still sluggish, began to separate from one another, no longer blurring together quite so indistinctly. He breathed deeper, longer, focusing on sensation rather than urgency.
By the time he finished, the world felt… clearer.
Not sharp.
Not fully present.
But enough.
Enough that when he shut off the water and reached for a towel, the motion felt intentional rather than delayed. Enough that when he dressed, his fingers moved with practiced familiarity instead of hesitation. Enough that the sound inside his head quieted, if only slightly, settling into something he could tolerate.
He checked the time again before leaving.
10:48
No time to linger.
Soren slipped on his coat, adjusted it with care, and stepped out into the corridor beyond his quarters. The air felt cooler here, the transition immediate, and the hum greeted him again with its persistent resonance. He moved carefully, mindful of his ankle as he made for the stairs leading upward toward the operations deck.
Each step was deliberate.
His ankle held, protesting only faintly as he climbed, and he adjusted his pace accordingly—steady, unhurried, conserving energy where he could. The ship around him was waking into full activity now, the corridors no longer empty but not yet crowded. Voices carried faintly from distant passages, footsteps echoed intermittently, and somewhere above, a door slid open and shut with quiet efficiency.
When he reached the upper landing, he found the operations deck door already open. Usual.
He slowed slightly as he approached, senses attuned despite the lingering haze that dulled their sharpness. The hum felt denser here, its vibration threading through reinforced structures and control systems alike. He stepped through the threshold, posture straightening instinctively as he entered a space that demanded attention.
He had only gone a few steps further when a door opened to his left.
Atticus stood in the doorway of his office.
The moment stretched—not long, but long enough for recognition to settle fully into place. Soren halted, taken aback despite himself, his thoughts stumbling briefly over the unexpected timing. Atticus, for his part, seemed equally momentarily surprised, his gaze lifting and fixing on Soren with a sharpness that spoke of immediate assessment rather than casual acknowledgment.
"Captain," Soren said, the word leaving him automatically, formal and respectful despite the faint breathlessness beneath it.
Atticus's eyes lingered on him for a second longer than necessary.
Not unkindly.
Not critically.
Just… thoroughly.
Then he nodded once, a small, controlled motion that closed the moment as neatly as it had opened.
"Soren," he replied, tone even.
Without further comment, Atticus stepped fully into the corridor and fell into pace beside him, turning toward the operations deck without ceremony. Soren matched his stride, aware of the subtle shift in presence that accompanied the captain's proximity—the way the air itself seemed to recalibrate around authority and familiarity alike.
They walked together in silence.
Soren felt it then—the faint awareness of being observed, not overtly, not intrusively, but with the quiet attentiveness of someone who noticed details even when they chose not to name them. He kept his posture neutral, his expression composed, focusing instead on the rhythm of their steps and the steady pull of the hum beneath the deck plating.
The operations deck lay ahead.
The meeting awaited.
And though the fog in his head had thinned, Soren could not quite shake the sense that he was arriving at it a step behind himself—present in body, attentive in habit, yet moving through the moment as though the world were half a beat out of sync.
Together, he and Atticus crossed the threshold.
_________________________
The operations deck settled into order with the quiet efficiency of long habit.
Displays brightened as personnel took their stations, panels humming softly as data streams aligned and recalibrated. The broad forward viewport stretched across the far wall, framing the open sky in a wide, uninterrupted expanse of pale blue. From this height and angle, the horizon curved gently, subtle enough to be overlooked if one were not accustomed to watching it change.
Soren took his usual seat along the outer arc of the central table, lowering himself carefully, mindful of his ankle. The ache flared briefly as he shifted, then subsided into a low, tolerable thrum. He adjusted his posture once, twice, until it no longer demanded attention, then rested his hands loosely atop the surface before him.
The hum pressed close here.
Not louder in volume, but denser—concentrated through reinforced supports and layered systems. It threaded through the table beneath his palms, through the soles of his boots, through the air itself. He felt it more than he heard it, a constant undercurrent that seemed intent on making itself known.
Atticus took his place at the head of the table without announcement.
The room followed suit.
Conversation tapered off, movements stilled, and attention oriented itself forward in subtle, practiced ways. Atticus did not speak immediately. He stood for a moment, hands resting lightly against the table's edge, gaze sweeping the room with measured calm.
"Begin," he said at last.
Elion straightened where he stood near the navigation console.
His posture was precise, his expression composed, but there was an undercurrent of alertness there—something sharper than routine briefing. He brought up a projection with a quick series of inputs, and a holographic display bloomed above the table: navigational data layered with course lines, coordinate markers, and time stamps.
"This morning," Elion began, voice steady, "we detected a deviation in the Aurelius's navigation path."
The word deviation drew Soren's attention immediately.
Not sharply—his thoughts did not snap to focus so much as drift toward it—but persistently, like a current pulling at him from beneath the surface. He leaned forward slightly, eyes tracking the projection as Elion continued.
"It was minor," Elion clarified, anticipating the unspoken concern. "Within acceptable tolerance. The ship compensated automatically, and we remain on course."
A subtle shift rippled through the room—relief, measured and restrained.
Soren noted it distantly.
Elion adjusted the display, isolating a segment of the trajectory. A single point along the course line pulsed faintly.
"The deviation occurred here," he said, indicating the marker. "Timestamp: 03:13."
The number landed with quiet force.
Soren felt it before he processed it.
03:13.
His gaze remained on the projection, but his awareness slipped backward unbidden—to the slate glowing dimly in the dark, to the weight in his chest, to the hum that had felt louder than it should have been. The memory surfaced slowly, filtered through the lingering haze in his mind, but it was unmistakable.
Coincidence.
The word formed, deliberate and cautious.
It has to be.
He said nothing.
Elion continued, unaware—or uninterested—in the subtle shift at the table's edge. "The deviation did not alter our projected arrival window. The correction was smooth, and no structural strain was recorded."
He paused, then added, "However, it did require a manual adjustment this morning to realign long-range navigation parameters."
Cassian leaned forward slightly, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
"A natural turn?" he asked, tone thoughtful rather than skeptical. "We're nearing the turning point of this leg, yes?"
Elion nodded. "Correct. The Aurelius is approaching the scheduled coordinate for course transition." He adjusted the display again, bringing up a broader map. "This point here."
The projection expanded, revealing a complex lattice of routes and markers. The highlighted coordinate sat at the convergence of several pathways, its significance immediately apparent to anyone familiar with long-distance navigation.
Everett spoke next, voice calm and even. "Historically, this coordinate has required minor recalibration on older vessels," he said. "The gravitational and atmospheric currents in this region are… layered."
Cassian huffed softly. "A polite way of saying unpredictable."
"A precise way of saying documented," Everett replied without missing a beat.
A few quiet smiles flickered around the table.
Soren listened.
He did not interject, did not offer observation or commentary. His attention drifted from speaker to speaker, absorbing words more slowly than usual, filing them away with careful deliberation. He was aware of the slight lag in his responses—not outwardly visible, perhaps, but present to him nonetheless. Each thought arrived a fraction too late, each conclusion requiring conscious effort to assemble.
Elion resumed. "At our current speed, we'll reach the turning coordinate by early evening," he said. "All systems indicate a clean transition."
Atticus nodded once. "Then we proceed as planned."
The decision settled the room.
Discussion moved on—briefly touching on supply distribution, crew rotations, minor system checks. Soren followed along, nodding when appropriate, making note of details even as his mind felt slightly removed from the flow of time. He was present, listening, participating in habit if not in full clarity.
Eventually, the meeting circled back to its close.
Atticus's gaze shifted, landing on Soren with quiet intent.
"And you?" he asked. "Anything to note?"
The question was open-ended.
Deliberately so.
Soren felt the weight of it settle into his chest.
For a moment, he did not respond.
Not because he lacked an answer—but because he was weighing it.
03:13.
The hum.
The aerostatic control passage.
Liora's words echoed faintly at the edge of his thoughts. Fragile, in moments like these.
It could just be coincidence.
The phrase surfaced again, insistent and reassuring in equal measure.
No one had asked him directly.
No anomaly had been flagged to him.
He was a memoirist—not a systems officer, not navigation, not command.
And yet—
Soren drew a slow breath.
He became aware, belatedly, that Atticus was still watching him. Not impatiently. Not expectantly.
Just… there.
"I've been recording routine observations," Soren said at last, voice even despite the pause that preceded it. "Nothing out of the ordinary."
The words felt… safe.
Atticus held his gaze for a beat longer than the rest.
Then he nodded. "Very well."
He straightened slightly. "That will be all."
Chairs shifted as the meeting dissolved, crew members rising and dispersing with practiced efficiency. Conversations resumed in low tones as people returned to their stations or moved toward their next tasks.
Soren gathered his slate and stood carefully, adjusting his weight as his ankle reminded him—quietly—that it was still there.
He turned toward the exit.
Atticus fell into step beside him without comment.
They walked in silence for several strides, the operations deck fading behind them as the corridor opened up ahead. Soren sensed the shift before Atticus spoke—the subtle change in direction, the way their path angled not toward the general thoroughfare but toward the captain's office.
"Soren," Atticus said quietly. "Walk with me."
It was not an order.
It did not need to be.
Soren nodded once and followed him through the open doorway, the hum deepening slightly as the door slid shut behind them.
________________________
The captain's office was quieter than the corridor beyond it—though not silent.
The hum of the Aurelius threaded through the reinforced floors and walls, resonating beneath the heavy desk and up through the metal framework in slow, steady pulses. It carried a different quality here. Less expansive. More contained. The sound did not fill the space so much as inhabit it, pressing close to the body rather than the ears. Soren felt it through the soles of his boots, through his calves, a constant reminder of the ship's mass and motion held together by precision.
Atticus crossed the room first, moving with unhurried purpose. He did not go immediately to the desk. Instead, he stopped near it and turned back, his gaze settling on Soren with a quiet attentiveness that carried no edge.
"Sit," he said—not sharply, not as instruction, but as consideration. He gestured toward the chair opposite the desk with an open palm. "Please."
Soren hesitated only a fraction of a second.
His body made the decision for him.
He moved toward the chair and lowered himself into it carefully, mindful of his ankle as he adjusted his weight. The seat was firm, supportive, its solidity grounding after so long spent standing. He let his shoulders relax back against it, though he kept his posture upright out of habit more than necessity.
Atticus watched the movement closely.
Not intrusively.
Just… noting.
He went to the desk then, resting one hand lightly against its edge rather than sitting himself. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched—not awkwardly, but deliberately—giving the room time to settle around them.
"You don't look well," Atticus said at last.
There was no accusation in it. No sharpness. Just an observation, stated plainly.
Soren drew a slow breath. "I'm functioning," he replied, a little automatically.
Atticus's gaze softened, though it did not waver. "That wasn't my question."
The words landed gently.
Soren's fingers curled against his knee. He became acutely aware of the ache in his ankle again—not worse than before, but persistent, insistent. Present in a way that mirrored the heaviness behind his eyes.
"I slept longer than intended," he said after a moment. "My head feels… slower than usual."
Atticus nodded once, as though that confirmed something he had already suspected. "You've been injured," he said. "You've been awake at odd hours. And you've been pushing yourself regardless."
Soren did not argue.
"That isn't a reprimand," Atticus added quietly. "It's concern."
The word lingered between them.
Soren shifted slightly in the chair. "I don't feel unwell enough to be confined to quarters."
"I didn't say confined," Atticus replied. "I said rest."
He paused, then continued, more carefully. "You were distant in the meeting. Listening, yes—but not fully here."
Soren looked down briefly, then back up. "I was following the discussion."
"I know," Atticus said. "You always do." A beat. "But you were also elsewhere."
The hum seemed to deepen, threading through the space beneath the words.
Soren considered his response.
There it was again—that pause. The weighing. The internal assessment of what could be said without consequence and what might invite questions he wasn't ready to answer.
Atticus did not rush him.
Finally, Soren spoke. "Last night," he began slowly, "I was awake around three."
Atticus's attention sharpened, subtly. "Yes?"
"03:13," Soren said.
The number felt heavier spoken aloud.
Atticus straightened almost imperceptibly. "That's when the deviation was logged."
"So I heard."
Soren inhaled, steadying himself. "Around that time, I passed through the lower decks. The aerostatic control passage."
Atticus said nothing, allowing the silence to hold.
"The latch wasn't fully secured," Soren continued. "It had been engaged—but not properly sealed. There was airflow. Enough that I noticed it immediately."
Atticus's brow furrowed—not in alarm, but in thought. "You reported it?"
"I spoke with Liora," Soren said. "She addressed it."
"And you didn't mention it in the meeting."
Soren's fingers tightened briefly against the chair's arm. "I wasn't certain it was relevant. Or… more than coincidence."
Atticus regarded him for a long moment.
"It may be," he said at last. "Coincidence."
He shifted his weight, thoughtful. "But airflow imbalance could affect stabilization, especially in older vessels. Minor enough not to trigger alarms. Significant enough to require correction."
The implication hung quietly in the air.
"And the timing," Atticus added, softer now, "is not nothing."
Soren nodded once.
Atticus exhaled, then straightened fully. "I want you to rest today," he said. "No formal duties. No observation logs unless you choose to write privately."
Soren opened his mouth to protest.
Atticus lifted a hand—not to silence him, but to temper the response. "This isn't removal," he said. "It's preservation. Of you."
The words struck deeper than command ever could have.
After a moment, Soren nodded. "Alright."
Atticus's shoulders eased slightly. "Good."
They stood shortly after.
The parting was quiet, unceremonious. No further instruction, no lingering tension—just a shared understanding, tentative but real.
_________________________
The exterior hull greeted Soren with wind.
It wrapped around him in steady currents as he stepped out, tugging lightly at his coat, ruffling his hair with persistent insistence. The air was cooler here, cleaner, carrying with it the vast openness of the sky. Beneath it all, the hum rose again—layered, resonant, more pronounced without the insulation of walls.
He paused.
His heart skipped—not in fear, but awareness.
Then he moved forward and lowered himself onto the familiar ledge, settling cross-legged with his back against the rail. The metal was cool through the fabric of his coat, grounding in its solidity.
Soren reached for his ledger.
He opened it to a blank page.
The wind circled him as he began to write—about the meeting, the deviation, the tone of Atticus's voice. About the wind itself, and how it moved differently today. About the ship, and the way her hum felt closer than before.
Near the bottom of the page, he added one final line.
A note.
A timestamp.
And the observation of an unsecured aerostatic latch.
The pen did not pause after that.
_________________________