10-10-2025, 12:30 PM
The turbolift doors parted onto a Bridge alive with motion and precision. Helm and Ops exchanged rapid numbers—velocity vectors, lateral clearance, power curves—each clipped acknowledgment blending into the low murmur of a crew running hot but not chaotic. Tactical’s panels pulsed with layered readouts; the faint amber of shield modulation swept across the displays in rhythm with the ship’s pulse. The Yeager herself felt different—leaner somehow, coiled, every hum and vibration tuned toward forward momentum.
On the main viewer, a string of race buoys flashed by in rapid sequence, each one strobing white before fading into the black. The Wairaran racer ahead rode the lane like a phantom ribbon of light—distant but steady.
Busy deck. Don’t add noise. You’re here for one thing—get the confirmation, then clear the lane.
Riley stepped clear of the lift, instinctively aligning herself along the outer walkway to stay out of the command flow. Years of Academy training echoed in her stance—shoulders squared, hands clasped neatly behind her back, movements deliberate and small so as not to draw a single unnecessary glance. The posture gave her a strange comfort; it felt like discipline turned armor.
Big ship, small officer. Same lesson as always: be useful or be invisible.
She moved toward the Science station, where the glow of sensor data spilled in a cool gradient across the consoles. From her angle she could see the outlines of temporal telemetry still cycling—charts of decaying chroniton readings, subspace harmonics flattening, and system integrity returning to pre-anomaly norms. The displays were mesmerizing in their own way: the galaxy reduced to numbers that told a story only the right mind could read.
Whatever’s left of the distortions, they’re fading fast. Still… “looks” isn’t a report. The Chief wants confirmation, not interpretation.
She stopped a respectful distance from the console—close enough to be heard, far enough not to obstruct anyone’s view.
“Midshipman Riley Wright, Security,” she said evenly, making sure her tone carried without interrupting the rhythm of the Bridge. “Chief d’Tor’an directed me to obtain first-hand confirmation regarding any remaining temporal effects impacting flight operations. Are sensors still returning residual distortions, or have they cleared entirely?”
Riley kept her eyes trained on the nearest screen rather than the officer himself, following the lines of data that scrolled in quiet precision. Her PADD flickered to life at her side, the summary field open but blank—waiting for facts, not guesses.
Don’t assume. Don’t fill in blanks you didn’t earn. Get the truth, write it clean, and nothing comes back to haunt you later.
A mild tremor rolled through the deck as Helm angled the ship through another buoy. She shifted her footing instinctively—weight balanced, knees soft, a trick learned from hours of zero-g drills and more than one turbulent shuttle ride. The hum beneath her boots was steady, confident. For all the chaos of the race, the Yeager felt sure of herself again.
She’s fast when she wants to be. Like she knows she has something to prove.
A faint chime from Science’s auxiliary station drew her attention—the sort of background sound that told anyone listening that the system was still processing data. Riley stayed quiet, reading what she could from the public-facing monitors: variance bars narrowing, spikes smoothing, residual traces dipping into background noise. Whatever had disrupted them earlier, it was nearly gone.
Looks clear. Almost certain. But it’s his data, not mine. I wait for confirmation, not convenience.
She eased back half a step to keep clear of the sightlines, eyes flicking to the Tactical repeater showing the Wairaran’s distance and relative velocity. The separation was narrowing by degrees; the next buoy already gleamed ahead like a target light.
We’re gaining. Good. Maybe that’s one thing this crew doesn’t know how to do—quit.
Her gaze returned briefly to Science, patient, steady. She’d wait for the final word, log it as instructed, and carry it back herself. No comms until the picture was whole.
Control what you can. Confirm what matters. Stand your ground—even if it’s only a half-step of deck and a line of text waiting to be written.
== Tag Science folks ==
On the main viewer, a string of race buoys flashed by in rapid sequence, each one strobing white before fading into the black. The Wairaran racer ahead rode the lane like a phantom ribbon of light—distant but steady.
Busy deck. Don’t add noise. You’re here for one thing—get the confirmation, then clear the lane.
Riley stepped clear of the lift, instinctively aligning herself along the outer walkway to stay out of the command flow. Years of Academy training echoed in her stance—shoulders squared, hands clasped neatly behind her back, movements deliberate and small so as not to draw a single unnecessary glance. The posture gave her a strange comfort; it felt like discipline turned armor.
Big ship, small officer. Same lesson as always: be useful or be invisible.
She moved toward the Science station, where the glow of sensor data spilled in a cool gradient across the consoles. From her angle she could see the outlines of temporal telemetry still cycling—charts of decaying chroniton readings, subspace harmonics flattening, and system integrity returning to pre-anomaly norms. The displays were mesmerizing in their own way: the galaxy reduced to numbers that told a story only the right mind could read.
Whatever’s left of the distortions, they’re fading fast. Still… “looks” isn’t a report. The Chief wants confirmation, not interpretation.
She stopped a respectful distance from the console—close enough to be heard, far enough not to obstruct anyone’s view.
“Midshipman Riley Wright, Security,” she said evenly, making sure her tone carried without interrupting the rhythm of the Bridge. “Chief d’Tor’an directed me to obtain first-hand confirmation regarding any remaining temporal effects impacting flight operations. Are sensors still returning residual distortions, or have they cleared entirely?”
Riley kept her eyes trained on the nearest screen rather than the officer himself, following the lines of data that scrolled in quiet precision. Her PADD flickered to life at her side, the summary field open but blank—waiting for facts, not guesses.
Don’t assume. Don’t fill in blanks you didn’t earn. Get the truth, write it clean, and nothing comes back to haunt you later.
A mild tremor rolled through the deck as Helm angled the ship through another buoy. She shifted her footing instinctively—weight balanced, knees soft, a trick learned from hours of zero-g drills and more than one turbulent shuttle ride. The hum beneath her boots was steady, confident. For all the chaos of the race, the Yeager felt sure of herself again.
She’s fast when she wants to be. Like she knows she has something to prove.
A faint chime from Science’s auxiliary station drew her attention—the sort of background sound that told anyone listening that the system was still processing data. Riley stayed quiet, reading what she could from the public-facing monitors: variance bars narrowing, spikes smoothing, residual traces dipping into background noise. Whatever had disrupted them earlier, it was nearly gone.
Looks clear. Almost certain. But it’s his data, not mine. I wait for confirmation, not convenience.
She eased back half a step to keep clear of the sightlines, eyes flicking to the Tactical repeater showing the Wairaran’s distance and relative velocity. The separation was narrowing by degrees; the next buoy already gleamed ahead like a target light.
We’re gaining. Good. Maybe that’s one thing this crew doesn’t know how to do—quit.
Her gaze returned briefly to Science, patient, steady. She’d wait for the final word, log it as instructed, and carry it back herself. No comms until the picture was whole.
Control what you can. Confirm what matters. Stand your ground—even if it’s only a half-step of deck and a line of text waiting to be written.
== Tag Science folks ==