Morning did not arrive all at once.
Soren woke before he moved, aware first of the hum—low, even, familiar. It pressed through the walls of his quarters with the same steady rhythm it always had, a vibration that never quite became sound and never fully receded into silence. The Aurelius breathed around him, its systems cycling through their measured cadence, and for a while he remained still, letting that constancy settle into him.
Nothing felt wrong.
And yet—quiet.
Not the absence of sound, not a break in operation. The hum remained, the temperature held, the air circulated as it always did. But the ship felt quieter in the way a room does after someone leaves it—not emptier, just subtly changed. As though the usual layering of presence had thinned by a degree too small to measure.
Soren lay there with his gaze unfocused, tracking sensation rather than thought. The mattress beneath him held his weight evenly. The air brushed his skin with a faint, neutral coolness. Somewhere beyond the bulkheads, wind continued to slide along the hull, its pressure translated into structure and restraint.
He inhaled slowly.
The quiet did not deepen. It did not resolve into anything definable. It simply remained.
Eventually, he moved.
The routine of the morning unfolded without friction. He washed, dressed, adjusted his coat. The ledger resting on his desk remained; he picks it up as per usual. When he open his door and stepped into the corridor, the lights adjusted automatically, brightening just enough to meet him.
The corridor stretched ahead in clean lines, panels unbroken, the faintest sheen catching along the seams. Foot traffic was light—lighter than usual for this hour. A crew member passed him with a nod, another farther down the corridor turned into a junction without breaking stride. Everything functioned as it should.
Still, the quiet lingered.
Soren set off toward the mess at an unhurried pace, letting his steps align with the ship's rhythm. As he walked, he noticed the air again—not colder, not warmer, but softer somehow. A gentle twirl of movement brushed past him near the junction, subtle enough that he might have dismissed it on any other day. He did not stop. He let it pass.
The mess greeted him with warmth.
Lights glowed along the ceiling in soft bands, reflecting off metal surfaces polished smooth by constant use. The scent of brewed coffee and warm bread hung in the air, familiar and grounding. A few crew members occupied scattered tables, their voices low, their movements efficient but unhurried.
It was quieter here too.
Not empty—never that—but reduced. Conversations overlapped less. Chairs remained unoccupied longer. The usual low swell of noise that wrapped the space in a kind of living insulation felt thinner, stretched.
Soren collected something light—a cup of coffee, a small portion of food—and turned toward one of the side tables. Before he could sit, a familiar presence caught his attention.
Nell entered through the opposite side of the mess, pausing briefly at the counter where Darrick stood sorting dishes. They exchanged a few words—too quiet for Soren to hear—before Nell turned, spotted him, and lifted a hand in greeting.
She crossed the space with an easy stride, her expression relaxed in the way it only ever was during off-hours.
"Morning," she said, pulling out the chair across from him.
"Morning," Soren replied, settling into his seat as she did the same.
For a moment, they ate in companionable silence. The coffee warmed his hands as he lifted the cup, steam curling faintly upward. Nell stirred her drink absently, eyes drifting around the room as if taking stock without consciously trying.
"Feels a little different today," Soren said at last, his tone casual.
Nell hummed in agreement. "Yeah. Quieter, right?"
He nodded. "I thought it was just me."
"It's not," she said. "Schedules got adjusted overnight. They're rearranging operations to hold efficiency while the wind stays consistent. More hands moved to the lower decks."
That explained it. At least, it explained part of it.
"I remember that coming up during discussion," Soren said. "Shifting support downward."
"Mm," Nell replied. "Tamsin's been pushing for it. The operations side's been… a little chaotic lately. Not in a bad way. Just a lot of moving parts."
Soren considered that as he took another sip of coffee. "Maintenance priority?"
"Exactly. The lower parts of the Aurelius hold the ship together," Nell said, her tone light but certain. "Wind being consistent helps, but it also means sustained strain. Maintenance keeps things steady."
Their conversation drifted from there, touching on small things—rotations, a delayed shipment of supplies, a shared observation about how early mornings always made the ship feel larger than it was. Nell spoke easily, her words unburdened by urgency. Soren found himself responding in kind, the exchange settling into a familiar rhythm.
It was comfortable.
When they finished eating, they rose together and carried their trays to the collection counter. Darrick offered them both a brief nod as they passed, already turning back to his work.
Outside the mess, the corridor stretched long and clean, light filtering down in soft gradients. Nell checked something on the slate clipped to her belt, her brow furrowing briefly before smoothing again.
"Hey," Soren said, the word landing lightly. "You remember our conversation that day—down at the systems junction?"
Nell glanced up, curious. "Yeah?"
"Could I confirm something?" he asked. "Where does Bram stay? Room two, or—"
"Nell!"
The call came from farther down the corridor, sharp enough to cut cleanly through the ambient hum. Nell turned immediately, lifting a hand in acknowledgment.
She looked back at Soren, already stepping away. "Hey—maybe ask Tamsin about that," she said. "I'm not quite sure—"
A sharp beep sounded from her pocket. Nell winced, halting mid-sentence as she fumbled for the device and silenced it.
"I've got to go," she said, already moving again. "Ask Tamsin. She'll know."
And then she was gone, pulled back into motion by the ship's steady demands.
Soren stood there for a moment longer than necessary, the corridor stretching quiet around him once more.
__________________________
Soren lingered where Nell had left him, the corridor slowly reabsorbing its own quiet. The hum of the Aurelius pressed back into awareness, steady and low, threading through the soles of his boots and up his spine. He adjusted his grip on the coffee cup, then let his hand fall to his side.
Ask Tamsin.
It was a reasonable suggestion. An obvious one, even. And yet he did not turn immediately toward the operations side, nor toward the usual routes where Tamsin was most often found. Instead, he began to walk.
Not with a destination in mind—at least, not consciously.
The corridors accepted him without resistance. Light panels brightened and dimmed in gentle succession as he passed, responding to motion and presence. The air carried that same softness he had noticed earlier, a faint pliancy that shifted around him rather than pressing back. It reminded him of fabric moving in water—slow, responsive, never quite still.
He told himself he was observing.
That had always been his role. To move through the Aurelius and register its state: systems, crew, atmosphere. To notice changes and assess their weight without overcommitting to interpretation. So he walked with that familiar half-focus, gaze drifting along seams in the walls, the placement of junction panels, the posture of crew members as they passed.
He did not see Tamsin.
He passed a pair of engineers carrying a crate between them, their conversation clipped and efficient. A navigator paused at a wall panel, fingers flicking across the slate embedded there, eyes narrowing briefly before smoothing again. A crew member emerged from a side passage and nearly collided with him, offering a quick apology before hurrying on.
Everything functioned.
And yet, beneath it all, something stirred.
It was not a sound. Not quite a sensation either—more a pressure, a momentary tightening that rippled through him as he descended the stairs toward the lower deck. His foot met the final step, weight settling—
—and for the briefest instant, the air surged.
It was violent in the way a thought can be violent: sudden, total, gone before it could be named. The pressure flared around his ankles, spiraled upward, then vanished as though it had never been there at all.
Soren stopped.
He stood at the base of the stairs, one hand hovering just above the rail, breath caught midway between inhale and exhale. The lower deck stretched out before him, wide and dimmer than the upper levels, its ceiling higher, its corridors broader. Foot traffic moved steadily through the space, more pronounced here now than in days past, the result of the adjusted rotations Nell had mentioned.
No one else reacted.
The air lay still. The hum remained unchanged.
Soren exhaled slowly and continued forward.
The lower deck had always felt different from the rest of the ship—not heavier, exactly, but grounded. Here, the Aurelius revealed more of its structure: exposed conduits running along the walls, reinforced support ribs arching overhead, the faint scent of oil and metal lingering beneath the recycled air. With more crew assigned here, the space carried a low murmur of activity—voices overlapping, footsteps echoing softly, tools clinking in measured rhythm.
He walked through it all at an even pace, letting the environment wash over him.
He noticed how the wind felt down here—or rather, how it didn't. The air was still, contained, disciplined by layers of bulkhead and insulation. It made the memory of that sudden surge feel even more incongruous, as though it belonged to a different place entirely.
He told himself it was nothing.
After some time, he turned back toward the stairs, ascending once more to the mid-deck. The transition was smooth, the air subtly shifting as he climbed, temperature rising by degrees so small they could only be felt rather than measured. He passed through another junction, then another, still not finding Tamsin.
The door to the exterior hull lay ahead.
He slowed as he approached it, fingers brushing the edge of the panel as if checking himself. Outside meant wind, meant exposure—not danger, but variance. A place where the ship's relationship with its environment was no longer mediated entirely by structure.
He paused.
Then he keyed the door open.
The wind rushed in immediately, stronger than earlier, pressing against his coat and forcing a sharp intake of breath. It wasn't violent, but it was insistent, filling the narrow space with motion and sound as the door sealed behind him.
Soren stepped out onto the exterior walkway.
The sky stretched wide above the Aurelius, a dull blue washed thin in places where bands of pale yellow light broke through the clouds. The wind behaved strangely today—not in intensity alone, but in direction. It flowed from multiple angles at once, converging and diverging in patterns that shifted even as he watched.
His coat tugged against him, hair lifting and settling in uneven rhythm.
He moved toward the railing and rested his hands against it, grounding himself in the solid resistance of metal. From here, he could feel the Aurelius respond beneath him: the subtle adjustments in balance, the minute recalibrations that kept the ship steady despite the wind's erratic behavior.
Mid-intensity, he noted automatically. But unstable.
The thought surfaced without urgency. Observation, not alarm.
He moved to his usual place near the panel, lowering himself into a cross-legged seat with his back resting against the structure. The metal was cool through his clothes, a steady anchor against the shifting air.
He took out his ledger.
The pages rustled softly as he opened it, the familiar weight settling into his hands. For a moment, he simply watched the sky, letting the wind pass over him, through him, around him. Then he began to write.
|| Wind persists.
The words flowed steadily, his pen moving with practiced ease.
|| Behavior altered. Directional flow less consistent. Pressure fluctuates, converging toward multiple points along the hull.
He paused, considering, then continued.
|| Ship response stable. Structural compensation effective. Minor adjustments ongoing.
Another line followed, more measured.
|| Lower deck activity increased per revised rotations. Crew presence steady. No disruption observed.
He hesitated, then added one more note.
|| Atmospheric perception suggests potential shift within the next cycle.
He did not underline it. Did not emphasize it. Simply let it exist on the page.
When he finished, he closed the ledger and rested it against his knee, eyes lifting once more to the sky. The wind continued its restless movement, brushing past him in layered currents. For a moment—just a moment—it felt as though it slowed, the pressure easing, the air hanging suspended.
Then it resumed, as if nothing had happened.
Soren remained seated, breathing evenly, letting the sensation pass through him without comment.
Eventually, he rose.
_________________________
Soren stood more quickly than he intended.
The motion pulled a sharp line of pressure behind his eyes, bright and immediate, like a thread drawn too tight. He froze, one hand lifting instinctively to brace against the panel beside him as the world narrowed for a brief second. The wind continued its restless motion around him, tugging at the edges of his coat, but he focused on his breath instead—slow, deliberate, deeper than before.
In.
Out.
The pressure did not vanish, but it softened, retreating into a dull, familiar weight. A migraine, settling rather than striking. He exhaled through it, letting his shoulders drop.
I've run out of pills, he noted with mild irritation, more logistical than concerned. He would need to stop by medical again. Rysen would notice, of course—he always did—but there was nothing urgent about it. Just another small maintenance task, like everything else.
Soren stepped back inside the hull.
The door sealed behind him with a muted hiss, cutting off the wind and replacing it with the Aurelius' steady interior hum. The temperature evened out immediately, the air less chaotic, more contained. He paused for a moment in the narrow transition space, allowing his senses to recalibrate, then moved forward.
The corridor stretched ahead, softly lit, its surfaces worn smooth by constant passage. He walked without haste, the migraine pulsing faintly now, no longer sharp enough to demand attention but present enough to be noted. It lent his thoughts a strange density, as though each one took slightly more effort to move through.
Ask Tamsin.
The thought returned, steadier this time. Not insistent—just there.
He passed a pair of crew members heading in the opposite direction, their conversation low and indistinct. One nodded to him reflexively. Soren returned the gesture and continued on, boots striking the deck in an even rhythm. The mid-deck felt busier now than it had earlier, the adjusted rotations showing themselves in small ways: more bodies moving with purpose, fewer idle pauses at junctions, the faint sense of momentum carrying everything forward.
As he reached one of the larger intersections, his gaze drifted—without conscious intent—toward the recessed crew rotation board embedded into the wall. The slate glowed softly, names and assignments scrolling in orderly columns.
He slowed.
Not stopped. Just slowed enough for his eyes to skim the list as he passed.
Some names repeated across adjacent shifts, a sign of redistribution rather than shortage. Others were marked inactive, flagged for rest or reassignment. He noted the pattern automatically, cataloguing it as background information—
—and then his attention snagged.
Bram's name was not there.
He halted fully this time.
Soren stepped closer to the slate, close enough for the text to sharpen. He scanned the list again, slower now. Top to bottom. Then the adjacent column. Then the smaller subsection reserved for temporary removals.
Nothing.
The migraine throbbed once, distinctly.
He straightened and stepped back, allowing another crew member to pass without interruption. He's still recovering, he told himself, the explanation arriving smoothly, already shaped. Temporary leave. Medical discretion. It wouldn't be unusual for a name to be withheld until clearance is confirmed.
That was reasonable. Procedural.
He resumed walking.
The corridors guided him onward, carrying him toward the operations side of the ship without his quite deciding to go there. He followed the flow, letting his pace align with the movement around him, the Aurelius' rhythm reasserting itself as a kind of metronome beneath his thoughts.
He did not find Tamsin.
At least, not at first.
He made a slow circuit through the mid-deck, then another. The migraine lingered, never escalating, but its presence sharpened his awareness of everything else: the way the air felt slightly denser near certain bulkheads, the subtle variance in the ship's hum as he passed structural junctions, the faint fatigue in the posture of a crew member leaning too long against a wall panel before pushing off again.
Eventually, a passing engineer answered his unspoken question.
"Tamsin?" the woman repeated when Soren asked, adjusting the crate balanced against her hip. "She's down in the crew rest bay. Operations side, lower deck. Been there since mid-cycle."
"Thank you," Soren replied, already turning.
The descent felt longer this time.
Not physically—his stride remained steady, his breathing even—but perceptually, as though each step carried more weight than the last. The migraine pulsed again as he reached the lower deck, a dull insistence behind his eyes that he chose not to interpret beyond its immediate presence.
The crew rest bay occupied a wide section near the operations side, tucked away from the main corridors. Soren had passed its entrance many times before without entering—its purpose was clear enough that it rarely required his attention. Now, as he approached, he slowed, taking in the space with fresh eyes.
The bay was quieter than the surrounding decks, its lighting dimmer and warmer. Rows of bunks lined one side of the room, partially enclosed for privacy, while the other held a series of tables scattered with slates, cups, and personal effects. A few crew members occupied the space, some seated and speaking in low voices, others resting with eyes closed, boots kicked off and posture loose.
The air here felt different.
Not stagnant—just heavy with shared exhaustion, a collective pause between demands. There was a kind of unspoken agreement woven into the space: rest when you can, speak softly, don't ask too much.
Soren stepped inside.
No one looked up immediately. He moved through the bay with careful awareness, not wanting to disturb the balance of the room. His gaze swept the tables until it settled on Tamsin, seated near the far wall.
She was alone.
A data slate lay open before her, its surface crowded with schematics and notes. Several paper documents were spread beside it, edges weighted down by a small metal tool. She leaned forward slightly, one elbow braced on the table, fingers moving with precise economy as she annotated a line of text.
She did not notice him until he was a few steps away.
"Tamsin," Soren said quietly.
She looked up.
The shift in her attention was immediate but unhurried. Her eyes sharpened as they found him, then softened just slightly, recognition settling in. She straightened in her chair, fingers stilling atop the slate.
"Soren," she replied. Not a question. An acknowledgment.
He hesitated, the migraine pulsing again, and adjusted his phrasing before speaking. "May I interrupt?"
Tamsin studied him for a moment longer than necessary. Not scrutinizing—measuring. Then she nodded once. "Go ahead."
Soren took a breath.
He was aware, suddenly, of the quiet around them. Of the way the bay seemed to hold itself still, as though listening without listening. He kept his voice low.
"I wanted to ask about a crew member," he said. "A mechanic. Bram Cutter."
The name felt solid as he spoke it. Anchored.
Tamsin's expression did not change immediately.
Then she blinked.
Once. Twice.
Her gaze dropped briefly to the slate in front of her, as though checking something that wasn't there, then lifted back to him. The pause stretched—not long, but noticeable.
"Bram Cutter," she repeated.
Soren nodded. "He was assigned under your oversight. Quartermaster-in-training. Lower deck rotations."
Another pause.
This one was longer.
Tamsin set the slate aside with deliberate care, aligning it with the edge of the table before folding her hands together. When she spoke again, her voice was level, uninflected.
"Bram Cutter is not on the Aurelius," she said. "There's no crew on board named Bram Cutter."
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