Soren noticed the difference before anyone said anything.
Not in the way his body felt—that had settled into its now-familiar equilibrium—but in the way his movement through the ship was interrupted.
He had been walking along the cooler interior corridor, one he'd come to prefer over the past stretch of days, when a crew member stepped just slightly into his path. Not enough to block him outright, but enough to require acknowledgment.
"Memoirist," the crew member said. "The captain would like a word."
There was no urgency in the tone. No emphasis. It was delivered the same way one might note a change in routing or a completed task.
Soren stopped.
"Now?" he asked.
"Yes," the crew member replied. "At your convenience."
Soren inclined his head. "Understood."
The crew member stepped aside immediately, already turning back to whatever they'd been doing before the interruption. The corridor resumed its quiet flow, footsteps passing, voices overlapping briefly before fading again.
Soren stood for a moment longer than strictly necessary, recalibrating.
The warmth beneath his skin had begun to build during the walk, and stopping allowed it to crest more sharply than he preferred. He adjusted his layers, loosened his collar, and waited until the sensation settled into something manageable before turning toward the upper deck access.
The route to Atticus's office was familiar.
He took it without thinking, choosing the longer path with steadier airflow rather than the more direct one that tended to trap heat. His pace was unhurried, measured to avoid triggering the faint dizziness that still followed sharper exertion.
As he climbed the last incline toward the upper hallway, he felt the familiar heaviness settle into his limbs. Not exhaustion—never quite that—but a resistance, as though his body were reminding him of its current limits.
He slowed, let the sensation pass, then continued.
Atticus's office looked exactly as it always had.
The door stood open, the interior lit by the same even, neutral lighting that filled the upper hallway. Inside, the space was orderly to the point of austerity—desk cleared save for a small stack of reports, data slate set neatly to one side, the Aurelius's steady hum softened by layers of insulation.
Atticus stood near the desk, reviewing something on the slate. He looked up as Soren approached, his expression unreadable but attentive.
"Come in," Atticus said.
Soren stepped inside. The door sealed behind him with a quiet hiss, cutting off the ambient sounds of the corridor.
Atticus gestured toward the chair opposite the desk. "Sit."
Soren did, lowering himself carefully. The chair was firm, supportive, the temperature of the room slightly cooler than the corridors below. He felt the warmth recede marginally, enough to make the act of sitting more comfortable.
Atticus remained standing for a moment longer, finishing whatever he'd been reading before setting the slate down and taking his own seat. He did not speak immediately.
The pause was not uncomfortable.
It was deliberate.
"How long has it been since you last noticed improvement?" Atticus asked at last.
Soren considered the question.
He did not answer immediately, not because he didn't know, but because the answer required precision.
"I'm not certain," he said finally. "There hasn't been a clear inflection point."
Atticus nodded once. "And your current condition?"
"Consistent," Soren replied. "Stable."
"Are you compensating," Atticus asked, "or recovering?"
The question was phrased carefully, without accusation or implication.
Soren exhaled slowly. "Compensating."
Atticus accepted that without comment. He folded his hands on the desk, posture straight but not rigid.
"Functionally," Atticus continued, "are you able to perform your duties?"
Soren hesitated.
The answer, if taken literally, was yes. He was mobile. Cognitively intact. Capable of observation, analysis, record-keeping—at least in theory.
But that was not the whole truth.
"I'm functional," Soren said carefully. "But not at my previous capacity."
Atticus's gaze remained steady. "By how much?"
Soren considered. "Enough that redistribution has been necessary."
"Yes," Atticus said. "It has."
There was no reproach in the statement. Just acknowledgment.
Atticus reached for the data slate again, scrolling briefly. "Your restricted status has been in place longer than initial projections."
"I'm aware."
"Have you experienced any deterioration?"
"No."
"Any improvement?"
"No."
Atticus set the slate aside again.
The hum of the ship filled the space between them, steady and unobtrusive. Outside the office, the Aurelius continued on its course, indifferent to the quiet assessment taking place within one of its uppermost compartments.
"You're not in danger," Atticus said.
It was not reassurance. It was a statement of fact.
Soren nodded. "I didn't believe I was."
"Good." Atticus leaned back slightly in his chair. "However, prolonged deviation—even stable—warrants review."
"Of course," Soren said.
Atticus studied him for a moment longer, his gaze moving with clinical thoroughness rather than personal concern. He noted Soren's posture, the way he held himself slightly more rigid than usual, the subtle adjustments he made to remain comfortable.
"You've adapted," Atticus observed.
"Yes."
"How sustainable is that adaptation?"
Soren paused.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "I haven't reached a limit yet."
Atticus nodded again. "That's what concerns me."
Not the adaptation itself, but the uncertainty.
Atticus stood. "I'm bringing Rysen in."
There was no question attached to the statement.
Soren inclined his head. "Understood."
Atticus moved to the door and keyed the internal comm. His request was brief, efficient, devoid of urgency. When he returned to his seat, he did not fill the waiting time with conversation.
Soren did not expect him to.
They sat in silence, the minutes passing without friction. Soren became aware of the warmth beginning to build again, slow and predictable. He adjusted his position slightly, easing the pressure on his lower back, loosening his collar another fraction.
Atticus noticed.
He did not comment.
_________________________
Rysen arrived without haste.
The door chimed once, softly, and Atticus rose to admit him with the same economy of movement he applied to everything else. The medic stepped inside, tablet tucked under one arm, expression composed in a way that suggested he had already anticipated the nature of the summons.
"Captain," Rysen said, nodding once as he entered. His gaze flicked briefly to Soren, then returned to Atticus.
"Sit," Atticus said.
Rysen did, positioning himself at the edge of the chair nearest the desk, posture attentive but not tense. He adjusted the tablet in his hands, waking the screen with a light tap.
For a moment, no one spoke.
The hum of the Aurelius filled the office, steady and even, a reminder that the ship continued on its course regardless of the quiet deliberation taking place within its uppermost compartment.
Atticus did not preface the discussion.
"Give me your assessment," he said.
Rysen nodded and brought up a series of readings on the tablet, his fingers moving with practiced familiarity. "Memoirist Eryndor's vitals remain within acceptable parameters," he began. "There have been no significant deviations since my last review."
He paused, then continued, adjusting the display. "Core temperature regulation remains inconsistent, but stable. Cardiovascular response is steady. Cognitive function shows no marked decline."
Soren listened, his attention focused on the cadence of Rysen's voice rather than the specifics of the data. The warmth beneath his skin had begun to build again during the walk to the office, but the cooler air here kept it at bay, allowing him to sit without discomfort.
Atticus leaned forward slightly. "And the recovery trajectory?"
Rysen hesitated—not because he lacked an answer, but because the answer required precision.
"It's non-standard," he said at last. "We're past the point where I would expect to see gradual improvement."
Atticus did not react.
"In most cases," Rysen continued, "symptoms of this nature either resolve or worsen within a predictable window. That hasn't happened here."
Soren folded his hands loosely in his lap, listening.
"Instead," Rysen said, "his body appears to have settled into an equilibrium. It's compensating effectively for the disruption, but it's not correcting it."
Atticus nodded once. "Explain the distinction."
Rysen shifted slightly in his chair. "Compensation means the body is adapting—finding ways to function within altered conditions. Correction would mean returning to baseline."
"And we're seeing the former," Atticus said.
"Yes."
"How stable is this equilibrium?" Atticus asked.
Rysen glanced down at the tablet again, scrolling through several days' worth of data. "So far, very. There's been no regression."
"No improvement," Atticus said.
"No," Rysen agreed. "None."
The word settled into the space between them, heavy but not alarming.
Atticus turned his gaze to Soren. "How does that align with your own experience?"
Soren considered the question.
"I feel… consistent," he said. "The symptoms haven't changed appreciably. I've learned how to manage them."
Atticus nodded. "Are you experiencing fatigue beyond what you can accommodate?"
"Not yet."
"Pain?"
"No."
"Cognitive delay?"
Soren hesitated. "There's a lag," he said. "But it's predictable."
Atticus accepted that without comment.
Rysen interjected, "That predictability is part of what makes this sustainable."
Atticus's gaze returned to him. "For how long?"
Rysen exhaled slowly. "That's the part I can't quantify."
Atticus waited.
"There's no immediate indicator of deterioration," Rysen continued. "But there's also no indication that this state will resolve without intervention."
"What kind of intervention?" Atticus asked.
Rysen shook his head. "At present, none that wouldn't introduce more risk than benefit. We're managing symptoms, not treating a known cause."
The implication was clear: there was nothing to act on yet.
Atticus sat back in his chair, folding his hands on the desk. "Operationally," he said, "what are the risks of maintaining current conditions?"
Rysen considered. "If Memoirist Eryndor continues to respect his limits, the risks are minimal. The primary concern would be cumulative fatigue or a miscalculation—pushing beyond his adapted thresholds."
Atticus turned to Soren again. "Are you likely to do that?"
Soren met his gaze. "No."
Atticus studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. "I believe you."
The statement was delivered plainly, without warmth or doubt.
Atticus returned his attention to Rysen. "Is there any reason to alter his current restrictions?"
Rysen shook his head. "No. What we're doing is working."
Atticus considered that.
"Then we maintain course," he said.
There was no ceremony to the decision. No sense of finality. It was simply the logical conclusion of the information presented.
Atticus rose, signaling the end of the formal assessment. "Continue monitoring," he said to Rysen. "Flag any change."
"Yes, Captain," Rysen replied, standing as well.
Atticus turned to Soren. "Continue as you are," he said. "Keep me informed."
"Yes, Captain," Soren said.
Atticus paused, then added, "You're not sidelined."
The words were precise, chosen carefully.
"I understand," Soren replied.
Atticus nodded once more, then moved to the door and keyed it open. The corridor sounds flowed back in, the ship's quiet activity resuming around them as though nothing of note had occurred.
Rysen stepped out first, already reviewing something on his tablet. He glanced at Soren briefly as they passed into the hallway.
"I'll check in later," he said. "As usual."
Soren inclined his head. "Thank you."
Rysen continued on, disappearing down the corridor.
Soren remained for a moment, standing just outside Atticus's office. The warmth began to build again, slow and familiar, and he adjusted his layers automatically.
Atticus watched him for a beat longer.
"Dismissed," he said.
Soren turned and walked away.
The upper hallway was quieter than the lower decks, the air cooler, the lighting more subdued. He chose his route without thinking, angling toward the corridor that would keep the warmth at bay for a little longer.
As he walked, the assessment settled into place—not as anxiety or fear, but as a new piece of information integrated into his understanding of the ship's operation.
He had been noticed.
Not as a problem.
Not as a risk.
But as a sustained variance.
The Aurelius absorbed that fact as it absorbed everything else, adjusting without comment. Schedules remained intact. Work continued. People moved through the corridors, conversations overlapping and fading in their wake.
Soren passed them all, his pace measured, his path chosen with quiet precision.
Nothing had changed.
And yet, something had.
The system had accounted for him.
_________________________