A light pressure settled on Soren's shoulder, deliberate and steady, not enough to startle but enough to draw him back.
He surfaced slowly.
The first thing he registered was the wind.
It pressed along the hull in its familiar, constant way—neither louder nor sharper than before, only present. The second was the hum beneath him, the Aurelius' low, even vibration carried through the panel frame at his back and the deck beneath his legs. Only after that did the world assemble itself properly: the muted night lighting, the faint outline of railings, the darker stretch of sky beyond the hull's edge.
"Soren."
Rysen's voice was quiet, pitched carefully, as if gauging how far Soren had drifted.
Soren inhaled once, slow and measured, and opened his eyes fully. He had been seated cross-legged, his back resting against the angled support frame where the outer paneling met the deck. His ledger was closed beside him, one hand resting loosely against its cover. He felt no disorientation, no ache in his joints or heaviness in his head. His thoughts aligned without effort.
"I must have fallen asleep," he said, more an observation than an apology.
Rysen's hand remained at his shoulder for a moment longer, then withdrew. "You did," he replied. "It's past peak hours. I wanted to check on you before shift rotation."
Soren turned his head slightly, enough to bring Rysen into clearer view. The medic stood close, posture relaxed but attentive, his coat unfastened at the collar. The ambient light caught the edge of his expression—focused, neutral, familiar.
"I'm fine," Soren added, anticipating the unspoken question.
"I know," Rysen said easily. "That's not the same as verified."
He stepped closer again, this time crouching rather than looming, and gestured with two fingers. "May I?"
Soren nodded and shifted his arm without comment. Rysen's touch was practiced and light as he checked his pulse, then his temperature with a compact scanner. The device emitted a brief, soft tone before going still.
"Vitals are normal," Rysen said. He glanced up. "Any dizziness when you woke?"
"No."
"Headache?"
"None."
"Disorientation?"
Soren considered it, honestly. "No."
Rysen studied him for a second longer, not clinical now so much as assessing the whole of him—the steadiness of his breathing, the clarity in his gaze, the absence of strain in his posture. Satisfied, he straightened.
"Good," he said. Then, after a half-beat, "That said—try not to rest outside the hull, if it's avoidable."
The phrasing was careful. Not a reprimand. Not a command.
Soren accepted it as it was meant. "I didn't intend to," he replied. "I sat down to write."
"I figured," Rysen said. "Still. Conditions have been… persistent."
Soren glanced outward again, toward the stretch of dark sky and the pale line where the Aurelius' structure cut against it. The wind traced along the hull, unbroken.
"They have," he agreed.
Rysen followed his gaze briefly, then looked back at him. "You should head inside. The temperature differential isn't extreme, but it's enough to matter over time."
There was no tension in his tone—only quiet insistence, the kind that came from familiarity rather than authority.
"I will," Soren said. He placed his hand against the frame and pushed himself upright. Rysen stayed close, steadying him automatically, though Soren didn't truly need the support.
They stood there together for a moment, neither rushing to move. The deck was nearly empty now; the occasional crew member passed at a distance, footsteps muted, their presence fleeting.
"You've been making the rounds more often," Rysen said casually.
Soren adjusted his coat. "I suppose I have."
"Anything in particular prompting it?"
"Observation," Soren replied after a brief pause. "The ship feels… quieter."
Rysen hummed softly, acknowledging without pressing. "That's not just you. Efficiency increases under sustained conditions. Less excess movement. Fewer redundancies."
"It's noticeable," Soren said.
"Yes," Rysen agreed. Then, with a glance toward a crew member adjusting a panel further down the deck, "I'll check on them before heading back. You should go in."
Soren inclined his head. "Thank you."
Rysen hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, then added, "If you feel off later—anything at all—come find me."
"I will."
That seemed to satisfy him. Rysen gave a brief nod and turned away, already shifting his focus back to his work.
Soren remained where he was for another moment, letting the air settle around him. Then he gathered his ledger and stepped through the access door, leaving the open wind behind.
The corridor inside felt cooler than before.
Not sharply so—just enough that he noticed the difference as the door sealed behind him. The lighting was dimmed for night cycle, casting long, muted bands along the walls. The Aurelius' hum was more contained here, less expansive than it was outside, but no less constant.
He began to walk.
At first without direction, letting his pace match the rhythm beneath his feet. The corridors were sparsely occupied; night shift had settled into its quiet routine. He passed a junction where a maintenance drone hovered briefly before retreating into a wall recess, its task completed without commentary.
The air felt slightly denser as he descended, the temperature dropping incrementally with each level. He did not consciously choose the lower decks at first—it was only after he found himself approaching the familiar stairwell that he recognized the pattern.
His hand brushed the railing.
The stairwell opened downward in a clean, even spiral, its steps illuminated by recessed lighting. He slowed, one foot hovering just above the first step.
"Soren."
Atticus' voice carried from behind him.
He turned.
Atticus stood a few paces back, hands clasped behind his back, his expression composed. The night cycle softened the usual sharpness of the operations commander's presence, but it did not diminish it.
"Captain," Soren acknowledged.
Atticus's gaze flicked briefly toward the stairwell, then returned to Soren. "Heading down?"
"I was," Soren said. "To observe."
"May I join you?"
The question was posed lightly, almost conversational, but it held weight nonetheless.
"Of course."
They fell into step together, descending in silence at first. The lower deck greeted them with its usual restraint: narrower corridors, more exposed systems, the quiet efficiency of structural maintenance and support operations. The wind was less perceptible here, felt more as pressure than sound.
Atticus walked with his customary precision, his attention moving fluidly from panel readouts to crew posture to ambient indicators. Soren matched his pace without effort.
"Your reports have been consistent," Atticus said after a while. "Concise."
Soren inclined his head slightly. "Conditions have been consistent."
"So they have." Atticus paused near a junction, allowing a pair of crew members to pass before continuing. "And yet the days feel longer."
Soren considered that. "They do."
Atticus glanced at him. "Why do you think that is?"
Soren's steps slowed imperceptibly. "Sustained conditions require sustained adjustment," he said. "There's less variation to segment time."
Atticus studied him as they walked. "That's one way to frame it."
They moved on, their footsteps echoing softly. The lower deck felt occupied but unhurried; conversations were low, movements precise. Everything functioned as it should.
"You've adapted your evaluations," Atticus said eventually.
Soren turned his head slightly. "In what way?"
"You allow for correction," Atticus replied. "You note deviation, then accept resolution without further escalation."
Soren thought of the way systems corrected themselves, the way patterns smoothed over time. "If a system compensates effectively, escalation isn't always necessary."
"No," Atticus agreed. "It isn't."
They stopped near a diagnostic panel, its display scrolling through steady, unremarkable data. Atticus rested his gaze on it briefly, then turned back to Soren.
"And if the correction itself becomes the pattern?" he asked.
Soren hesitated.
Not long—just enough to feel the question settle.
"I would note the pattern," he said carefully. "And continue observation."
Atticus held his gaze. The silence stretched—not tense, but deliberate.
Then Atticus nodded. "Very well."
He turned away, already resuming their path upward. "Let's head back."
They ascended together, the temperature rising incrementally as they moved. At the mid-deck junction, Atticus slowed.
"Get some rest," he said.
"I intend to," Soren replied.
Atticus lingered a moment longer, his gaze resting on Soren with that familiar, unreadable intensity. Then he inclined his head once and turned toward the operations corridor, his attention already shifting elsewhere.
Soren watched him go, then continued on his own.
_________________________
The mid-deck received him quietly. Night cycle lighting softened the corridor into long gradients of shadow and muted illumination, the panels along the walls catching light unevenly, as though the ship were breathing through layers rather than surfaces. Footsteps were infrequent now, spaced far enough apart that each one felt distinct before dissolving back into the Aurelius' constant hum.
He adjusted his pace without thinking, slowing slightly as he approached the mess.
It was nearly empty.
Peak hours had passed some time ago, leaving behind only the residual warmth of the space and the faint scent of brewed tea lingering in the air. Vivian, stood behind the counter, methodically wiping down a surface with unhurried strokes. They glanced up as Soren entered, offered a brief nod, then returned to their task.
Soren selected something light—bread, a small portion of preserved fruit, a cup of warm tea—and took a seat near the edge of the room. He did not choose a table at random; his body seemed to guide him toward the same corner he often favored during quieter hours, where the overhead lighting was dimmer and the hum of nearby systems created a steady, unobtrusive undertone.
He ate slowly.
Not because he lacked appetite, but because there was no reason to hurry. The ship moved as it always did, systems operating within their adjusted margins, the wind pressing along the hull in its sustained, patient way. Time felt elongated here, stretched thin but unbroken.
A pair of crew members entered partway through his meal, speaking softly to one another as they crossed the room. Their conversation did not reach him clearly—only fragments, tone rather than content. They collected their food and left again within minutes, the space returning to its quiet equilibrium.
When Soren finished, he gathered his cup and returned it to the counter, offering a nod of thanks. Vivian acknowledged it with a brief glance and a murmured response.
He did not linger.
The alcove on the upper deck called to him with the same unspoken insistence it had in recent days. The route there felt ingrained now, each turn anticipated before it arrived. He climbed steadily, the temperature shifting incrementally with elevation, warmth returning in subtle layers.
The alcove was unoccupied when he reached it.
He took his usual seat, settling into the shallow recess carved into the ship's structure, where the walls curved inward just enough to muffle ambient sound without isolating him completely. The Aurelius' hum resonated here more clearly, its frequency unbroken, reassuring in its consistency.
He removed his ledger from his coat and opened it to a fresh page.
The pen rested between his fingers with familiar weight. For a moment, he did not write. He simply listened—to the ship, to the faint movement beyond the alcove, to the distant echo of crew voices carried along the corridors.
Then he began.
|| Seventh day. Wind sustained.
The words came evenly, his hand moving with practiced control.
|| Intensity unchanged. Direction stable.
He paused, then continued.
|| Operational adjustments ongoing. Systems compensating within expected parameters. Crew efficiency maintained despite prolonged conditions.
He considered the phrasing, then added another line.
|| Minor deviations observed. Corrections effective.
The pen hovered briefly above the page. He felt the slight resistance in his wrist, the momentary hesitation that came before deciding whether further detail was necessary.
He did not elaborate.
The entry was sufficient.
He closed the ledger and rested it against his knee, fingers still curled around its edge. Outside the alcove, the corridor remained mostly empty, the few crew who passed doing so quietly, their footsteps measured.
Soren watched them without scrutiny, reading posture rather than expression. Fatigue registered as subtle adjustments—slower turns, weight shifted more deliberately—but nothing suggested disorder. The Aurelius absorbed these variations easily, redistributing workload, maintaining its internal balance.
The wind continued.
He could feel it even here, not directly but through the ship's responses: the way the structure held tension, the way vibrations settled into a steady pattern rather than fluctuating. It was a presence that shaped everything without demanding attention.
After a time, Soren rose.
The walk back to his quarters felt automatic, his movements guided by routine more than thought. The corridor lights dimmed further as he approached his section, the temperature cooling just slightly—a contrast he noted without comment.
He keyed in the passcode and stepped inside.
The door sealed behind him with a soft click, muting the corridor sounds. His quarters greeted him with familiar stillness, the air cooler here than in the alcove, carrying the faint metallic scent of recycled atmosphere.
He set his ledger down on the desk, removed his coat, and moved toward the wash basin. The water was cool against his skin as he washed his face, the sensation grounding, unremarkable.
As he straightened, he paused.
The hum of the Aurelius felt more pronounced here, concentrated by the enclosed space. The wind's influence registered faintly, not as sound but as pressure—subtle, cumulative, settling low, as though pooling near the floor.
He stood there for a moment, breathing evenly, letting the sensation exist without interpretation.
Then he turned off the light and moved to the bed.
The mattress yielded beneath him as he lay down, the fabric cool and smooth. He adjusted once, then stillness returned. The ship's hum filled the space, layered beneath the distant whisper of wind along the hull.
It was steady.
Unchanging.
Somewhere between awareness and rest, Soren let go of the day.
_________________________