Soren heard the creak before he woke.
Or rather—his eyes opened first, and the sound followed immediately after, already half-formed in his mind. It did not arrive as a clear external stimulus. There was no sharp intrusion, no distinct vibration in the structure to anchor it. It surfaced the way remembered sounds sometimes did, fully shaped, already recognized.
A low, strained note. Brief. Directionless.
He lay still, staring into the dimness of his quarters, breath even, pulse steady. The chronometer on the far wall glowed faintly: just past four. Pre-dawn cycle. The ship was quiet in the particular way it always was at this hour—systems running, crew minimal, the Aurelius suspended in its long, continuous motion.
The creak did not repeat.
Soren waited for it anyway.
He catalogued the sensations that followed instead: the hum beneath the floor, stable and familiar; the faint pressure gradient along the walls; the coolness of the air pooled low, brushing against his ankles where the blanket had shifted. Nothing suggested disruption. Nothing demanded response.
After several seconds, he exhaled slowly and let his gaze soften.
He had been thinking about the sound too much. He recognized that now, with the clarity that came from distance rather than alarm. The mind had a tendency to replay what it had been trained to observe, especially when attention was sustained for too long in one direction. Pattern reinforcement. Cognitive echo.
A recollection, not an event.
That explanation settled easily. Perhaps too easily—but Soren did not linger on the distinction. He shifted onto his side, then onto his back again, letting the weight of the mattress ground him. For a while, he simply listened to the ship.
The Aurelius did not answer back.
Eventually, he rose.
The water in the washroom steamed quickly, heat blooming through the small space as he adjusted the controls. He stepped beneath the spray and closed his eyes, letting it run longer than usual, the steady cascade dulling thought as effectively as it dulled sound. Heat loosened the residual stiffness in his shoulders, traced slow lines down his spine.
He stood there until the last fragments of sleep dissipated completely.
When he emerged, dressed and composed, the corridors beyond his door remained dim, lit only by low-cycle illumination. Shadows stretched longer at this hour, corners softened, the ship reduced to contours and movement rather than detail.
He had taken only a few steps when a figure emerged from a junction ahead.
They nearly collided.
Soren stopped short, instinctively shifting his weight back. The other person did the same, boots scraping lightly against the deck as they recovered balance. For a brief moment, neither spoke.
The figure resolved as the lighting adjusted—taller than average, shoulders squared, posture alert but not tense. Lower-deck uniform. The insignia was partially obscured by shadow, but Soren recognized the cut, the reinforced seams along the sleeves.
"Sorry," the crew member said first, voice steady. "Didn't expect anyone up this early."
"No harm done," Soren replied. His tone matched the other's—neutral, unhurried. "Early shift?"
The crew member nodded. "Something like that."
They stood aside to allow a maintenance cart to pass at the far end of the corridor. As it did, the light caught the man's face more clearly. He looked alert, eyes bright despite the hour, expression open in a way Soren did not often see this early in the cycle.
"You work lower deck," Soren said, more observation than question.
The man smiled faintly. "Mostly. Systems junctions, backend runs. I move around."
Soren inclined his head. "I don't believe we've been introduced."
"Oh." The man shifted his grip on the tool sling at his side. "Carden. Carden Konoa."
"Soren Eryndor," he replied, then added, out of habit, "Memoirist."
Recognition flickered briefly across Carden's face—not reverence, not tension. Just acknowledgment.
"Right. I've seen you around," Carden said. "Didn't know you were up this early too."
"Not usually," Soren admitted.
They resumed walking together without conscious decision, steps aligning naturally as they moved deeper into the corridor. The ship felt different at this hour—less layered, its movements more exposed. Systems spoke more clearly when fewer voices competed with them.
Carden glanced toward the lower-deck access. "Actually… if you've got a moment?"
Soren looked at him.
"There's a section in the systems junction that could use an extra set of hands," Carden continued. "Nothing urgent. Just one of those things that's better handled now than left until day rotation stacks on top of it."
"What sort of thing?" Soren asked.
"Coupling braces along a power conduit run. They're holding, but a few have loosened more than I'd like." He shrugged lightly. "Wind's been persistent. It adds up."
Soren considered for only a moment. His schedule was open. His body felt steady.
"I can help," he said.
They descended together, moving through the mid-deck and into the lower levels, where the ship's internal architecture shifted subtly. Corridors narrowed, bulkheads thickened. The hum deepened here, resonating through structural ribs rather than open space.
The systems junction occupied a broad chamber segmented by conduits, control housings, and access panels. Power lines ran along reinforced tracks, disappearing into walls and floors, branching outward like a circulatory system. The air was warmer here, tinged faintly with ozone and metal.
Carden moved with familiarity, navigating the space without hesitation. He set down his tools near an open panel and gestured toward a series of braces along the conduit.
"These," he said. "They're not failing. Just… shifting. Millimeter by millimeter."
Soren crouched beside him, running a hand along the nearest brace. He felt it immediately—not looseness, exactly, but a subtle give, a response slightly out of sync with the rest.
"They're compensating," Soren said. "But unevenly."
"Exactly."
They worked in silence for a while, tightening, recalibrating, checking alignment. Carden moved efficiently, adjusting components with practiced ease, disappearing briefly behind housing units to access secondary supports. Soren passed tools, held stabilizers in place, noted the rhythm of the ship beneath them.
It was methodical work. Grounded. The kind that required attention but not urgency.
At one point, Soren became aware of the wind again—not directly, but through the way the structure responded to it. A sustained pressure, pressing and releasing, never quite withdrawing. The Aurelius absorbed it with grace, redistributing stress, maintaining balance.
"Feels different today," Carden said quietly, as if reading the same thing.
"The wind?" Soren asked.
Carden nodded. "Same intensity. Different texture."
Soren filed that away.
When they finished, the junction felt settled again—not changed, exactly, but restored to a more even state. Carden secured the last panel and straightened, rolling his shoulders.
"Appreciate the help," he said. "Could've managed, but… faster with two."
"Of course," Soren replied.
They parted near the lower-deck access, Carden heading deeper into maintenance routes, Soren beginning the slow ascent upward. As he climbed, he felt his body relax, the earlier disquiet receding fully now that it had been given something tangible to attach to.
At the upper deck, he stepped outside the hull.
The wind greeted him immediately, flowing across the open space in layered currents, pressing against his coat, threading through gaps in the structure. It was stronger than earlier in the week—noticeably so—but still within manageable range.
The sky was beginning to change.
At the horizon, dark blue softened into muted violet, streaked faintly with pink. The first suggestion of dawn hovered just beyond reach, light diffused rather than direct. Soren rested one hand against the rail and stood there, letting the atmosphere settle around him.
He breathed in slowly.
The wind did not speak. It did not warn. It simply moved.
For a long moment, Soren allowed himself to focus on nothing else.
And then the light shifted just enough to signal the coming day.
________________________
The mess was quieter than usual when Soren entered.
It was still early enough that most of the crew who passed through did so out of necessity rather than habit—those ending night rotation, those preparing to begin day cycle tasks. Foot traffic was light, movement subdued. Voices stayed low, conversations brief and functional, dissolving quickly back into the ambient hum of the Aurelius.
He took a moment just inside the threshold, letting his eyes adjust, letting the space resolve itself.
Nell stood near the counter, sleeves rolled to her forearms, posture relaxed but engaged. Darrick was opposite her, leaning one elbow against the surface as he listened, head tilted slightly as if weighing whatever she had just said. A pot hissed softly behind him, steam curling upward in thin strands.
Soren approached without hurry.
Nell noticed him first. Her expression brightened, subtle but immediate. "You're up early."
"Could say the same," he replied.
Darrick glanced over, offering a brief nod of acknowledgment before turning back toward the equipment. "Give me a minute," he said, already reaching for cups. "I'll get something started."
Soren and Nell moved toward one of the tables near the side—one that allowed a clear view of the room without placing them directly in its center. The seating here was worn smooth from use, edges softened by time and repetition.
"You look like you haven't slept," Nell said, not accusatory, just observational.
"I did," Soren replied. "Just… earlier than usual."
She accepted that without comment, stretching her shoulders as she sat. "Lower deck's been busy. More small adjustments than I expected."
"The wind," Soren said.
"Mm." She nodded. "Nothing critical. Just a lot of things that don't like staying exactly where you leave them."
Darrick returned with two cups, setting them down before moving back toward the counter. "Food'll be ready in a bit," he said. "I'll call it out."
They thanked him, then settled into an easy silence. The mess continued its slow rhythm around them—chairs shifting, boots crossing the floor, the low murmur of voices blending with the background noise of the ship.
Nell sipped her drink, eyes unfocused for a moment. "You ever notice," she said finally, "how the ship feels different at different hours?"
Soren glanced at her. "Yes."
She smiled faintly. "I figured."
"It's more apparent when fewer people are moving through it," he added. "The systems don't change. The way we register them does."
Nell considered that. "Huh. Guess that makes sense."
They ate when Darrick brought their food over, conversation flowing easily—nothing heavy, nothing that demanded analysis. Talk of schedules, of a minor reroute she'd helped coordinate the night before, of a maintenance crew that had taken to calling one of the cargo lifts by a nickname no one could quite remember the origin of.
Eventually, Nell glanced at the chronometer. "I should get going. Tamsin'll want updates before the next cycle really kicks in."
"Of course," Soren said.
She stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "I'll catch you later."
"I'll see you," he replied.
She left without ceremony, disappearing into the corridor beyond the mess. Soren remained seated, finishing his drink, eyes tracking the subtle changes in the room as more crew filtered in. The atmosphere shifted incrementally—voices rising just a fraction, movement becoming more frequent, energy accumulating without ever tipping into disorder.
He took out his ledger.
The page was blank, waiting.
He wrote slowly, deliberately, letting the words settle into place rather than rushing to capture everything at once.
|| Pre-dawn cycle. Systems junction adjustments completed. Coupling braces along lower-deck power conduit realigned. No degradation observed.
He paused, then continued.
|| Wind sustained at current intensity. Structural response stable. Minor redistribution of internal pressure noted along lower corridors.
He added another line, smaller, more contained.
|| Crew alertness variable. Fatigue present but managed.
The pen hovered briefly as he considered whether to add more. He did not. The entry was sufficient.
He was closing the ledger when the sound occurred.
A dull thud—not sharp, not loud, but distinct enough to register. It came from nearby, followed by the scrape of a chair shifting abruptly. Soren looked up.
A crew member stood half-turned near one of the tables, one hand braced against the chair he had just knocked into, the other reaching instinctively toward the floor where a utensil had fallen. He looked embarrassed more than hurt, muttering an apology that barely carried beyond his immediate space.
No one else reacted.
Conversation continued uninterrupted. Darrick didn't look up from the counter. Two crew members at the far end of the room remained deep in discussion, heads inclined toward one another. The moment passed as quickly as it had arrived.
Soren watched as the crew member righted the chair, retrieved the fallen item, and resumed his place at the table. He moved a little more carefully after that, posture adjusting subtly, but nothing about him suggested alarm.
Soren looked back down at his ledger.
He wrote one final line.
|| Minor disruption observed. No response required.
He closed the book and returned it to his coat.
The walk out of the mess folded seamlessly into the ship's broader rhythm. Corridors adjusted as he passed—lighting softening ahead of him, brightening just enough behind. Systems hummed along their established paths, the Aurelius responding with its usual quiet precision.
The transition between shifts was underway. Night rotation thinned as day personnel filtered in, the exchange handled without pause or friction. Movements overlapped briefly, then resolved. A practiced cadence.
A current of air moved low along the corridor, close to the floor, brushing faintly against his boots as he walked. It was subtle—more suggestion than sensation—but consistent. Drawn forward rather than displaced.
Soren adjusted his pace to it without realizing.
He passed a junction where indicator panels pulsed in muted sequence, status lights cycling through greens and ambers. Nothing flagged. Nothing lagged. The ship was compensating, distributing load, maintaining equilibrium under sustained conditions.
Overhead, the lighting shifted incrementally as he climbed, tones cooling, then stabilizing. The wind pressed differently here—not stronger, not weaker, simply redirected. He felt it through the hull more than against it, a pressure translated through structure rather than air.
As he approached the upper deck, the hum deepened slightly, layered with the distant resonance of active consoles. Voices carried faintly from ahead—measured, restrained, already engaged in discussion.
Soren slowed near the threshold of the operations deck.
The Aurelius held steady around him, systems aligned, motion uninterrupted. Whatever changes were occurring, they were being absorbed, regulated, rendered functional.
He stepped forward and entered the space.
_________________________