The lower deck carried sound differently.
It was not silent—never silent—but the rhythm had thinned. Footsteps arrived less frequently and passed without overlap, each one distinct enough to be placed and then forgotten. The air circulated evenly, cool without sharpness, the kind of temperature maintained through careful correction rather than abundance. Soren moved through it at an unhurried pace, ledger tucked under his arm out of habit rather than intent, his attention open but unfocused.
The wind had been present for days now. Long enough to stop registering as an event. Long enough to become a condition.
He did not count the days precisely. He rarely did unless prompted. But the ship had adjusted its cadence in subtle ways—rotation schedules smoothing, maintenance windows stretching slightly wider, crew movements redistributing themselves without instruction. Efficiency, redistributed. Nothing strained enough to call for intervention.
The lower deck reflected that redistribution most clearly. Fewer crossings. Longer intervals. The work still happened; it simply did so with less noise.
Soren noticed Bram before he consciously identified him.
Part of it was position. Bram was stationed near a support column at the edge of a maintenance alcove, half-turned toward a panel that had been opened and resealed more than once. A barrel stood nearby, its lid set askew, contents indiscernible. Bram's shoulders were hunched, posture collapsed inward not from injury but from sustained effort. His movements were precise yet delayed, as though each action required confirmation before execution.
Soren slowed without meaning to.
Bram's hands were moving, but not continuously. He would adjust a latch, pause, rest his palm against the metal as if grounding himself, then continue. The pauses were not long, but they were frequent. His breathing was audible in the brief quiet between passing footsteps—steady, but shallow.
"Bram," Soren said, keeping his voice even. Not raised. Not tentative.
Bram stiffened. Not fully—just enough to register awareness. He did not look up immediately.
"What," Bram said, tone flat and edged with fatigue rather than hostility.
Soren stopped a respectful distance away. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
"You didn't," Bram replied, though his hands had stilled. "You're doing it anyway."
Soren accepted that without comment. He adjusted his stance slightly, redistributing his weight. "I was passing through. I wanted to check in."
Bram let out a short breath through his nose. When he finally looked over, his eyes were sharp but unfocused, as if they had been required to snap into clarity. There was irritation there, but it sat on top of something else—exhaustion, perhaps, or the effort of holding it at bay.
"I'm fine," Bram said. "Just working."
"I can see that," Soren replied. He did not soften his tone, but he did not harden it either. "You look tired."
Bram's jaw tightened. "Everyone's tired."
"That's true," Soren said. "Some more than others."
Bram turned back to the panel. "Then maybe you should let me be one of them."
Soren watched his hands resume their task. The rhythm was off—not wrong, but irregular. A fraction slower than it should have been. He waited, allowing space for the conversation to end naturally.
It did not.
"Medical's been making rounds," Soren said after a moment. "Rysen's been checking on people."
Bram's shoulders rose and fell once, sharply. "Yeah. I know."
"Did he—"
"I'm not sick," Bram cut in. His hand slipped on the latch, barely, but enough that he had to reset his grip. "I don't need to be monitored."
Soren inclined his head slightly. "I didn't suggest that you were."
Bram laughed under his breath, humorless. "You didn't have to."
There was a pause. A crew member passed at the far end of the corridor, boots echoing briefly before fading again. The wind pressed faintly through the hull, a steady external force translated into vibration too low to feel, only to know.
Soren considered his words carefully. "The wind's been ongoing," he said. "Longer than projected."
"And?" Bram asked, eyes still on his work.
"And sustained conditions affect people differently," Soren replied. "If rest was suggested—"
"I don't have time to lie down because the sky feels like it's leaning," Bram said, more sharply now. He straightened, just slightly, then swayed before catching himself on the frame. "Someone still has to keep this section running."
Soren's attention sharpened at that, though his expression did not change. "You don't have to do it alone."
Bram finally turned fully toward him. His face was pale beneath the grime, eyes rimmed red, focus slipping in and out as though he were forcing it to hold.
"You don't know what it's like down here," Bram said. Not accusing. Stating. "You write things down. You walk around. You leave."
Soren accepted that without defense. "That's true."
"Then don't stand there asking me if I've had a nap," Bram said. His voice was rough, but not loud. "Go do what you do."
For a moment, Soren considered staying. Asking another question. Pressing just a fraction harder.
Instead, he nodded.
"All right," he said. "I didn't mean to intrude."
Bram had already turned back to the panel.
Soren took two steps away before he sensed the change.
It was not dramatic. There was no sound—no crash, no cry. Just a shift in the space behind him, a sudden absence of motion where there should have been one.
He turned in time to see Bram's knees buckle.
Soren crossed the distance in three strides. He caught Bram under the arms as his weight gave out, the impact jarring but manageable. Bram's head lolled briefly, breath shallow, eyes unfocused.
"Easy," Soren said, more to himself than to Bram. He adjusted his grip, lowering Bram carefully to the deck for a brief moment to reposition. Bram did not resist. Did not speak.
Soren turned his back, braced, and shifted Bram up and over his shoulders in a practiced motion born of observation rather than experience. Bram was heavier than he looked, but not unmanageable. Soren rose smoothly, compensating for the imbalance, and started toward the mid-deck access corridor at a controlled pace.
"Medical," he said to the first crew member he passed. "Call Rysen. Lower deck, section C."
The crew member nodded once and broke into a jog without asking for clarification.
Soren adjusted his hold as Bram shifted faintly, one arm slipping before settling again. Bram's breath was warm against the back of his neck, uneven but present.
The corridors felt longer on the ascent. Or perhaps Soren was simply more aware of the distance now, each step measured, each turn anticipated. He did not hurry, but he did not slow. The ship remained stable beneath his feet, compensating for the altered load without complaint.
_________________________
They reached the medical bay just as Rysen arrived from the opposite direction, his stride purposeful, expression already assessing.
"Here," Soren said, angling toward the nearest bed.
Rysen took over seamlessly, hands steady as he guided Bram down, checking responsiveness even as he motioned for equipment. Bram was transferred onto the bed without incident.
"He collapsed," Soren said. "Lower deck."
Rysen nodded, already scanning readouts. "How long?"
"Seconds," Soren replied. "He was conscious until just before."
Rysen acknowledged that with a brief sound. He adjusted a monitor, then another, movements efficient.
"I asked earlier if he'd been checked," Soren said. "A few days ago."
Rysen did not look up. "Fatigue was noted," he said. "No acute markers. Rest was recommended."
"Was he like this then?" Soren asked.
Rysen paused for half a beat, considering. "More responsive," he said. "But symptoms can progress under sustained conditions."
Soren absorbed that. He watched Bram's chest rise and fall, watched the monitors stabilize into consistent patterns.
"Will he be all right?" Soren asked.
Rysen's gaze flicked to him then, briefly. "He's stable," he said. "I'll monitor him."
"That's all I needed to know," Soren replied.
Rysen inclined his head slightly, paused, and started again as his gaze landed on Soren. "There's been more crews in decline, you should rest when needed."
Soren noted it with a nod, "I understand."
Rysen acknowledged the answer with a nod and promptly returned to his work.
Soren stepped back, giving space. The medical bay settled into its usual controlled quiet, the hum of systems blending into the larger rhythm of the ship.
He left without ceremony.
The exterior access door opened to evening light, the sky washed in muted tones that shifted subtly with the wind. Soren stepped out and let the door seal behind him. The air pressed against him, steady and insistent, not harsh enough to demand retreat.
He crossed to a familiar section of the hull and lowered himself to sit, legs crossed, back against the frame. The metal was cool through his clothes, grounding.
The wind continued.
It had not intensified. It had not weakened. It simply remained.
Soren closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, attention drifting outward. The Aurelius held steady beneath him, systems adjusting continuously, invisibly. Whatever strain existed was distributed evenly enough to avoid detection.
He sat there for a long while, letting the rhythm settle back into place.
The ship did not falter.
Neither, for now, did he.
_________________________
The wind had not changed by the time Soren took his ledger out.
He remained seated against the exterior frame, the metal cool through the thin layer of fabric at his back. The Aurelius vibrated beneath him with its usual restraint—no tremor, no instability, only the low, continuous acknowledgement of movement sustained under pressure. The sky above had begun its slow shift toward evening, light thinning into a dull gradient that carried no urgency with it.
Soren rested the ledger across his knees and opened it without ceremony.
He wrote as he always did. Neatly. Evenly. Each line placed with care, spacing consistent, the structure of the page more important than the content it held.
|| Wind sustained. Sixth day.
He paused only long enough to ensure the phrasing was accurate.
|| Intensity unchanged. Direction stable. External conditions remain consistent.
The words settled easily onto the page. There was no need to elaborate. He had already noted the same conditions before, each day marking the continuation rather than the change. The repetition did not trouble him. It was, after all, part of the record.
|| Crew operations remain efficient. Adjustments observed across rotational schedules. Minor deviations corrected without manual intervention.
He lifted his gaze briefly, letting it drift along the curve of the hull before returning to the ledger.
|| Medical activity increased. Fatigue reported among multiple crew. No escalation observed.
He did not name anyone.
He never did.
The ledger was not a place for individuals. It was for the ship, the expedition, the movement of systems through time. Names were unnecessary where function sufficed.
Soren closed the ledger halfway, thumb marking his place, and sat in silence for several minutes after. The wind pressed steadily against his skin, cool but not biting, a constant presence that no longer demanded acknowledgment. It had become part of the environment—like the hum of the engines, like the rhythm of footsteps along the decks.
The thought drifted through him without urgency: six days.
Not as a concern. Just a measure.
A soft footstep approached from behind.
"Soren."
He turned his head slightly to see a crew member standing a respectful distance away. The individual wore no distinguishing markers beyond standard issue—rank indeterminate, expression neutral.
"Cassian and Everett would like to see you," the crew member said. "Operations deck."
"Now?" Soren asked.
"Yes."
Soren nodded once. He closed the ledger, slid it back beneath his arm, and rose smoothly to his feet. The wind brushed past him as he turned toward the access door, its pressure unchanged.
The transition back into the hull was seamless. The interior air was warmer by a fraction, the soundscape shifting from open vibration to controlled hum. Soren adjusted without thought, his steps falling into the ship's cadence as he made his way upward.
_________________________
The operations deck was quieter than it had been earlier in the cycle. Displays glowed with muted light, data streams flowing steadily without alarm. Cassian stood near the central console, arms folded loosely, his attention divided between a projection and Everett, who was seated with a tablet angled toward him.
They looked up as Soren approached.
"Memoirist," Cassian greeted, tone neutral.
"Soren," Everett added, inclining his head slightly.
"You asked to see me," Soren said, coming to a stop at a comfortable distance.
Cassian gestured toward the projection. "We've been reviewing the archives from the past several days."
Soren waited.
"There's a pattern," Cassian continued. "Nothing incorrect. Nothing incomplete. Just… convergence."
Everett shifted the tablet, bringing up a series of summarized entries. "Your records align closely with operational data," he said. "Perhaps more closely than usual."
"That would make sense," Soren replied. "Conditions have been stable."
Cassian studied him. "Stable doesn't always produce uniformity."
"No," Soren agreed. "But sustained conditions do."
Everett leaned back slightly. "We're not suggesting error. Just noting repetition."
Soren considered that. "The Aurelius has been holding itself efficiently despite the current circumstances," he said. "Minor deviations are corrected quickly. Systems compensate without escalation."
Cassian's brow furrowed slightly. "And that explains the consistency?"
"Yes," Soren said. "Consistency produces alignment."
Everett exchanged a glance with Cassian. "There's also the matter of… thinness."
Soren tilted his head a fraction. "In what sense?"
"In the conclusions," Cassian said. "They're sound. Just pared down."
Soren did not respond immediately. He let the silence stretch just long enough to be deliberate.
"The days have not been empty," he said finally. "But they have been uniform. The wind has remained constant. The ship's response has been measured. Crew fatigue is present but managed. There is little variance to record beyond that."
Everett nodded slowly. "Which makes the repetition reasonable."
"Yes," Soren said. "Efficiency compresses narrative."
Cassian exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been amusement—or resignation. "We wanted to be sure nothing was being overlooked."
Soren met his gaze steadily. "If something requires attention, it will register."
Everett inclined his head. "That's why we asked."
The conversation settled after that, drifting into procedural clarifications. Soren remained with them as they cross-referenced timestamps, adjusted archival tags, and confirmed data continuity. It was methodical work, quiet and precise, the kind that absorbed time without announcing its passage.
By the time they concluded, the ambient light outside the deck had dimmed further.
"Thank you," Everett said as he closed his tablet.
Soren nodded. "Of course."
A faint pressure had begun to build behind Soren's eyes by then—not sharp, not disruptive. Just enough to be noted. He adjusted his posture, subtly, as he took his leave.
The corridors were less populated now. The mess hall's peak had passed, the space beyond its doors carrying only the low murmur of lingering conversation and the clink of utensils being cleared away.
Soren stepped inside briefly, collected a small portion of food without comment, and ate standing near the perimeter. The flavors registered faintly. Sufficient.
He did not linger.
The walk back to his quarters felt longer than usual. Not because of distance, but because the ship's quiet had deepened. Systems ran smoothly. Crew movements were sparse and deliberate. The Aurelius continued forward, steady as ever.
Inside his quarters, Soren set the ledger down carefully. He washed his hands, the cool water easing some of the pressure at his temples. When he lay down, he did so fully clothed, eyes closing as the ship's rhythm carried on around him.
The wind continued.
Outside.
Unchanged.
And the Aurelius held.
_________________________