Soren was already moving.
The corridor extended ahead of him in a shallow curve, its lighting set to a restrained daytime register that softened the metal surfaces without obscuring them. The Aurelius carried forward with its usual steadiness, but the air felt fuller than it had the day before — not warmer, not colder, simply present in a way that made each breath more noticeable.
He adjusted his pace as he walked, letting it settle into something sustainable rather than efficient.
The medic wing came into view gradually, announced first by the low hum of equipment before the doorway itself appeared. The doors stood open, and the muted sound of voices reached him as he approached — not urgent, not raised, just occupied.
Rysen was already engaged when Soren reached the threshold.
A crew member sat on the examination bench, shoulders slightly hunched, hands clasped together as Rysen spoke to them in a quiet, even tone. Another stood off to the side, waiting, posture patient but tired. The room bore the signs of extended use: cups of water on a side table, a folded blanket resting where someone had set it down and not yet reclaimed it, instruments arranged neatly but not untouched.
Soren waited until Rysen finished his sentence.
Rysen looked up, recognition immediate but unremarked.
"Give me a moment," he said, then turned back to the crew member. "Rest where you can. If the dizziness worsens, come back."
The crew member nodded and rose, passing Soren on the way out without comment.
Rysen turned fully toward him then.
"You're early," he said.
"The wind arrived early," Soren replied.
Rysen gave a brief, humorless exhale. "That it did."
He gestured Soren inside with a small movement of his hand and returned to the central console, scrolling through readings as he spoke.
"I've had an increase in fatigue reports since last night," he said. "Headaches. Lightheadedness. Poor sleep."
"How many?" Soren asked.
"Enough to notice," Rysen replied. "Not enough to alarm."
He paused, fingers stilling against the console. "Vitals are within range. No fever. No indication of contagion. This isn't illness in the conventional sense."
"Environmental?" Soren asked.
"Most likely," Rysen said. "Disrupted sleep cycles. Sustained atmospheric variance. The wind didn't help."
He reached for a slate resting near the console and lifted it, scanning briefly before extending it to Soren.
"I'm compiling a medical summary for the captain," he said. "I won't be able to leave the wing. Could you deliver this?"
Soren accepted the slate.
"Have you spoken with logistics?" he asked.
Rysen shook his head. "Not my domain. I've flagged that coverage may need adjustment, but that's for Tamsin."
Soren nodded.
"I'll make sure it reaches Atticus," he said.
Rysen hesitated for half a beat, then added, "I don't believe we're dealing with anything dangerous. Just cumulative strain."
"I understand."
Rysen inclined his head once and turned back to his console as another crew member stepped inside, moving carefully, as though measuring their balance with each step.
Soren stepped back into the corridor.
The door sealed behind him with a soft sound, the interior noise of the medic wing immediately dampened. He adjusted the slate under his arm and resumed walking, retracing his path toward the central stair that led up to the operations deck.
_________________________
The stairwell rose through the ship's interior, its steps shallow and evenly spaced. Soren placed his hand lightly on the rail as he climbed, feeling the faint vibration beneath his palm. His breathing adjusted naturally to the ascent — not strained, not hurried.
With each level, the air shifted subtly.
Not abruptly. Gradually. The change registered more as density than temperature, the operations deck carrying a different concentration of sound and motion than the decks below.
By the time he reached the top, his pace had evened out again.
The doors to the operations deck stood open.
Inside, the familiar configuration had already assembled itself. Cassian leaned against the edge of the central table, one ankle crossed over the other, his attention fixed on a projection hovering above the surface. Elion stood at the forward station, posture upright, fingers resting lightly against the panel as she monitored navigational data. Everett occupied his customary position slightly apart, slate in hand, eyes moving steadily as information scrolled past.
Atticus stood at the head of the space, hands clasped behind his back, gaze directed toward the main display.
Soren stepped inside.
Atticus turned at once. "Memoirist."
Soren inclined his head and moved closer, stopping just short of the table.
"I have a medical report from Rysen," he said, lifting the slate.
Atticus gestured for him to proceed.
Before Soren could speak, Elion glanced over her shoulder. "The wind pattern remains consistent," she said. "Stronger than predicted, but stable. No lateral drift."
Cassian nodded. "The models didn't account for sustained interaction at this intensity," he said. "But we're well within tolerance."
Everett looked up briefly from his slate. "No discontinuities in the logs," he added. "Nothing that requires annotation beyond standard notation."
Atticus listened without interruption.
Soren waited for a natural pause, then stepped forward and handed over the slate.
"Rysen reports an increase in crew fatigue," he said. "Headaches, dizziness, disrupted sleep. Vitals remain within range. He attributes it to cumulative strain and environmental variance."
Atticus scanned the slate quickly, his expression unchanged.
"No immediate medical risk?" he asked.
"No," Soren replied. "He's advised rest where possible."
At that moment, Tamsin entered with her usual efficiency, a slim folder tucked under her arm. She paused just inside the threshold, assessing the room, then stepped forward.
"Captain," she said.
Atticus turned. "Report."
"We've adjusted duty rotations for several sections," Tamsin said. "Coverage remains adequate, but the margin is narrower than yesterday. A few crew have been reassigned to lighter tasks pending rest."
She met Atticus's gaze steadily. "No operational gaps at present."
Atticus nodded once.
"We continue to monitor," he said. "No course adjustment."
There were no objections.
"Dismissed," Atticus added after a moment.
The group dispersed with quiet efficiency.
Cassian gathered his notes. Elion returned her full attention to the forward displays. Tamsin turned and exited without further comment.
Everett stepped closer to Soren as they moved toward the door.
"Walk with me," Everett said.
Soren nodded, and together they left the operations deck.
__________________________
Everett set the pace without announcing it.
He moved down the corridor with the unhurried confidence of someone accustomed to walking while thinking, slate tucked under one arm, his free hand occasionally lifting to scroll or adjust a setting. Soren fell into step beside him naturally, matching the rhythm without effort.
They did not speak at first.
The corridor sloped gently downward, transitioning away from the concentrated activity of the operations deck into quieter passageways where sound diffused rather than echoed. The lighting softened as they went, panels shifting toward a neutral register meant to reduce strain rather than highlight detail.
After several turns, Everett spoke.
"I wanted to review cross-referenced logs from the previous expedition cycle," he said. "Specifically environmental response data."
Soren inclined his head. "From before the corridor?"
"Yes," Everett replied. "And the initial period after entry."
He slowed slightly as they approached a junction, angling toward a side corridor that led deeper into the archival sections. "Not because I expect a discrepancy," he added. "But because the current variance aligns closely with patterns that were previously recorded as transitional."
"Transitional how?" Soren asked.
Everett considered for a moment. "In retrospect, not in analysis."
Soren accepted the answer without comment.
They continued on, the corridor narrowing just enough to encourage focus rather than movement. The sound of the ship shifted again here — the hum more present, the vibration underfoot slightly more pronounced. Soren was aware of it without needing to think about it, the sensation registering as background rather than stimulus.
The archival workspace opened gradually, marked first by the presence of storage arrays and then by the low glow of data interfaces arranged along the walls. Everett stepped toward one of the consoles and set his slate down, fingers moving with practiced familiarity as he called up layered records.
"Take a look," he said, angling the display toward Soren.
Soren stepped closer.
The data scrolled steadily: wind vectors, pressure readings, environmental stability metrics recorded over extended intervals. Nothing stood out at a glance. The values were within acceptable ranges, the trends smooth rather than erratic.
"This was considered nominal," Everett said. "At the time."
"And now?" Soren asked.
"Still nominal," Everett replied. "But context changes interpretation."
He adjusted the display, overlaying present data with historical records. The alignment was close — not exact, but close enough to be recognizable.
Soren studied the projection in silence.
"The difference," Everett continued, "is not magnitude. It's duration."
"How long did it persist previously?" Soren asked.
Everett scrolled. "Long enough to be noted. Not long enough to be escalated."
"And now?"
Everett paused. "Longer."
Soren nodded slowly.
"Does it require annotation?" he asked.
Everett considered, then shook his head. "Not yet. It doesn't introduce discontinuity."
He glanced at Soren briefly. "But it does warrant attention."
They stood together for several moments longer, watching the data cycle through its iterations. The ship's hum filled the silence between them, steady and unbroken.
Eventually, Everett stepped back from the console.
"That's all I needed to confirm for now," he said. "I'll continue monitoring from my end."
Soren inclined his head. "Let me know if you require anything further."
Everett gathered his slate. "Of course."
They left the archival space together, retracing their steps into the main corridor. After a short distance, Everett slowed.
"I'll return to my station," he said.
Soren stopped with him. "Understood."
Everett hesitated, then added, "For what it's worth — your reports have been consistent."
Soren met his gaze. "Thank you."
Everett nodded once and turned away, his footsteps receding smoothly into the ambient sound of the ship.
Soren remained where he was for a moment longer.
The corridor ahead was empty, its length broken only by the gentle curve of the walls and the faint shift in lighting as the ship adjusted to internal cycles. He adjusted his grip on the ledger he carried — not opening it, just feeling its familiar weight settle against his palm.
He did not feel compelled to write.
Instead, he turned and began walking.
His route took him upward again, though not toward the operations deck this time. He followed a path he had walked many times before, one that wound past junctions and support structures until the architecture opened into a broader space.
The central pillar rose through the deck before him.
It was not decorative. It was structural — a vertical spine around which systems aligned and redistributed load. Conduits traced its surface in orderly paths, disappearing into the surrounding framework. The lighting here was slightly dimmer, designed to reduce glare rather than obscure form.
Soren approached without urgency.
As he drew closer, the hum of the Aurelius became more pronounced, no longer diffused by distance or intervening structure. The vibration beneath his feet was steady, rhythmic, the kind of sensation that could be ignored entirely or attended to in detail, depending on one's inclination.
He stopped within arm's reach.
For a moment, he simply stood there, breathing evenly, letting the presence of the ship settle around him. The air moved gently across his skin — not a draft, not a gust, just the subtle circulation that never truly ceased.
He lifted his hand.
His palm made contact with the pillar's surface, the metal cool and solid beneath his touch. The vibration traveled up through his fingers and into his wrist, resonant but not forceful.
The Aurelius responded as it always had.
Not in motion. Not in sound.
In continuity.
Soren kept his hand there, feeling the steady hum, the layered rhythms beneath the surface — power flow, structural integrity, the quiet labor of systems working in concert.
The ship moved forward through the corridor, unbroken, unhurried.
And Soren stood with it, hand resting against its spine, breathing in time with the motion he did not need to measure in order to know.
_________________________