07-01-2026, 09:24 PM
Riley kept her eyes on the Security display, but in Condition Grey, pretending not to hear the rest of the Bridge was almost impossible.
The ship had gone too quiet for that.
Chertstone’s explanation of Grey Mode carried easily from Helm. It was not exactly the sort of thing an instructor would put on an Academy exam, but Riley found herself agreeing with it anyway. Power down what they could. Become a hole in space. Trust that anyone who did not already know where to look would not notice the absence until it was too late to matter.
Blunt, but accurate.
Qab’ataar’s reply was less blunt. The Andorian Midshipman had the careful energy of someone trying to keep professional control over an idea that had clearly caught hold of his imagination. Riley heard the words Class One probe, aft, positive Z axis, passive mode, and felt her attention shift despite herself.
A probe trailing behind the Yeager could help them hear what their reduced systems might miss. It might tell them whether they were truly quiet, or only quieter than usual. It could give them a second point of reference while the ship drifted blind and dark and tried very hard to look like something nobody needed to investigate.
It was a good idea.
That was the annoying part.
Good ideas still came with teeth.
A probe had to leave the ship. Even a small launch had a signature if someone was already watching closely enough. Once deployed, it became another fragile piece of Starfleet hardware hanging in the dark with their name, their habits, and possibly their position written into its bones. It could be detected. It could be spoofed. It could be used to lie to them.
Or, if someone was clever enough, it could be used to make the Yeager answer back.
Riley glanced once toward Science, then returned to her own console.
For the moment, it was still only a proposal. A useful one, but still only that. Braggins had not approved it, the probe had not launched, and Security did not need Riley turning every passing possibility into another moving part.
Not yet.
So she kept the thought close and let Science make its case.
Her own console remained clean. Transporter signatures were still clear. Armory access stayed locked down by authorization tier. No unexpected compartment access. No unusual pressure changes. Command-system pathways remained quiet. Crew movement held to the reduced pattern expected under Grey Mode.
The ship was quiet.
Security needed to be quieter.
Riley shifted the passive internal overlay slightly aside and brought up a smaller support panel, just enough to frame the question from her end if the Captain decided to move forward. Launch signature. Data-link behavior. Authentication response. Recall protocol. Silent-fail parameters.
Her mouth tightened slightly.
If it talks to the wrong thing, it stops being a sensor and starts being bait.
Riley waited for a natural break in the Bridge conversation before she spoke. Her voice stayed low, careful not to make the suggestion sound larger than it was.
“Captain, if the probe is approved, there may be one Security consideration.”
She glanced briefly toward Qab’ataar.
It was not the sharp look she gave sloppy procedure, or the flat one she reserved for people who confused confidence with competence. This one was quieter. A small nod, a steady expression, the closest she could offer in the middle of Condition Grey to: good thinking, keep going.
The idea was solid.
And the Midshipman looked like someone trying very hard to balance Academy training against the part where real ships did not care how recently someone had graduated.
Riley understood that more than she wanted to.
Last mission, she had still been a Midshipman herself. Then came Tomer, and all the ugly questions around whether he had been a victim, a saboteur, or something messier than either label. Riley had watched the situation sharpen faster than training scenarios ever did, and by the end of it, he had been seemingly killed on her watch.
Now she wore Ensign’s pips.
Barely.
The promotion had come with the start of the current mission, recent enough that some part of her still noticed the weight of it every time she caught her reflection in a darkened console. She answered to the rank because that was what the uniform required. She tried to move like it belonged on her collar because hesitation had a way of spreading, and Security could not afford that.
But trying was not the same as believing.
Not yet.
Somewhere beneath the practiced calm and clipped professionalism, Riley still wondered whether the promotion had been earned, or simply issued because Starfleet had needed another officer to stand where a Midshipman had survived.
That was not a useful thought.
Unfortunately, knowing that did not make it quieter.
That kind of lesson did not wait politely for rank pips.
It did not care whether someone felt ready.
It simply happened, and afterward everyone expected you to keep moving because the ship still needed officers who could stand at their posts and function.
Hopefully his rude awakening comes with fewer bruises.
The thought was dry, but not unkind.
She did not want Qab’ataar embarrassed into silence for having a useful idea. She also did not want a useful idea launched without someone checking where it could bite them.
“If it is going to sit out there listening for us,” Riley continued, looking back toward the command area, “we may want it configured not to answer anything back unless ordered. No automatic handshakes, no polite little acknowledgements to outside pings. If someone notices it, I’d rather they think it’s dead hardware than something they can make talk.”
There was more she could have added. A whole list, if she let herself: remote wipe, silent-fail behavior, restricted recall, false telemetry rejection, command-only authentication. But most of that belonged after an approval, not before it. The Captain did not need Riley turning one concern into a procedural lecture while the Yeager sat in the dark.
So she stopped.
For once, she even managed to be proud of herself for it.
Her gaze returned to the internal watch.
The Bridge still felt too close. The air still moved too slowly. Every quiet second made the childhood part of her brain want to count breaths and exits and meters to the nearest door. Riley hated that part. She hated it most when it was useful.
Because right now she was counting exits.
She knew who was between her and the turbolift. She knew which panels could be used for cover if something came through the wrong hatch. She knew how far she would have to move to intercept someone reaching for the command area, and which route would let her do it without crossing Helm’s line of movement.
Security was not paranoia if the threat was real.
It was only paranoia if one forgot to keep thinking.
Riley took a slow breath through her nose and let it out just as carefully.
Breathe. Watch. Protect.
The probe, if it launched, would become another point in the pattern. Another thing outside the hull. Another small piece of the Yeager stretching into the dark and hoping the dark did not notice.
Riley could live with that.
But she was not going to trust the dark to be polite.
== Tag Braggins, Qab’ataar, Bridge ==
The ship had gone too quiet for that.
Chertstone’s explanation of Grey Mode carried easily from Helm. It was not exactly the sort of thing an instructor would put on an Academy exam, but Riley found herself agreeing with it anyway. Power down what they could. Become a hole in space. Trust that anyone who did not already know where to look would not notice the absence until it was too late to matter.
Blunt, but accurate.
Qab’ataar’s reply was less blunt. The Andorian Midshipman had the careful energy of someone trying to keep professional control over an idea that had clearly caught hold of his imagination. Riley heard the words Class One probe, aft, positive Z axis, passive mode, and felt her attention shift despite herself.
A probe trailing behind the Yeager could help them hear what their reduced systems might miss. It might tell them whether they were truly quiet, or only quieter than usual. It could give them a second point of reference while the ship drifted blind and dark and tried very hard to look like something nobody needed to investigate.
It was a good idea.
That was the annoying part.
Good ideas still came with teeth.
A probe had to leave the ship. Even a small launch had a signature if someone was already watching closely enough. Once deployed, it became another fragile piece of Starfleet hardware hanging in the dark with their name, their habits, and possibly their position written into its bones. It could be detected. It could be spoofed. It could be used to lie to them.
Or, if someone was clever enough, it could be used to make the Yeager answer back.
Riley glanced once toward Science, then returned to her own console.
For the moment, it was still only a proposal. A useful one, but still only that. Braggins had not approved it, the probe had not launched, and Security did not need Riley turning every passing possibility into another moving part.
Not yet.
So she kept the thought close and let Science make its case.
Her own console remained clean. Transporter signatures were still clear. Armory access stayed locked down by authorization tier. No unexpected compartment access. No unusual pressure changes. Command-system pathways remained quiet. Crew movement held to the reduced pattern expected under Grey Mode.
The ship was quiet.
Security needed to be quieter.
Riley shifted the passive internal overlay slightly aside and brought up a smaller support panel, just enough to frame the question from her end if the Captain decided to move forward. Launch signature. Data-link behavior. Authentication response. Recall protocol. Silent-fail parameters.
Her mouth tightened slightly.
If it talks to the wrong thing, it stops being a sensor and starts being bait.
Riley waited for a natural break in the Bridge conversation before she spoke. Her voice stayed low, careful not to make the suggestion sound larger than it was.
“Captain, if the probe is approved, there may be one Security consideration.”
She glanced briefly toward Qab’ataar.
It was not the sharp look she gave sloppy procedure, or the flat one she reserved for people who confused confidence with competence. This one was quieter. A small nod, a steady expression, the closest she could offer in the middle of Condition Grey to: good thinking, keep going.
The idea was solid.
And the Midshipman looked like someone trying very hard to balance Academy training against the part where real ships did not care how recently someone had graduated.
Riley understood that more than she wanted to.
Last mission, she had still been a Midshipman herself. Then came Tomer, and all the ugly questions around whether he had been a victim, a saboteur, or something messier than either label. Riley had watched the situation sharpen faster than training scenarios ever did, and by the end of it, he had been seemingly killed on her watch.
Now she wore Ensign’s pips.
Barely.
The promotion had come with the start of the current mission, recent enough that some part of her still noticed the weight of it every time she caught her reflection in a darkened console. She answered to the rank because that was what the uniform required. She tried to move like it belonged on her collar because hesitation had a way of spreading, and Security could not afford that.
But trying was not the same as believing.
Not yet.
Somewhere beneath the practiced calm and clipped professionalism, Riley still wondered whether the promotion had been earned, or simply issued because Starfleet had needed another officer to stand where a Midshipman had survived.
That was not a useful thought.
Unfortunately, knowing that did not make it quieter.
That kind of lesson did not wait politely for rank pips.
It did not care whether someone felt ready.
It simply happened, and afterward everyone expected you to keep moving because the ship still needed officers who could stand at their posts and function.
Hopefully his rude awakening comes with fewer bruises.
The thought was dry, but not unkind.
She did not want Qab’ataar embarrassed into silence for having a useful idea. She also did not want a useful idea launched without someone checking where it could bite them.
“If it is going to sit out there listening for us,” Riley continued, looking back toward the command area, “we may want it configured not to answer anything back unless ordered. No automatic handshakes, no polite little acknowledgements to outside pings. If someone notices it, I’d rather they think it’s dead hardware than something they can make talk.”
There was more she could have added. A whole list, if she let herself: remote wipe, silent-fail behavior, restricted recall, false telemetry rejection, command-only authentication. But most of that belonged after an approval, not before it. The Captain did not need Riley turning one concern into a procedural lecture while the Yeager sat in the dark.
So she stopped.
For once, she even managed to be proud of herself for it.
Her gaze returned to the internal watch.
The Bridge still felt too close. The air still moved too slowly. Every quiet second made the childhood part of her brain want to count breaths and exits and meters to the nearest door. Riley hated that part. She hated it most when it was useful.
Because right now she was counting exits.
She knew who was between her and the turbolift. She knew which panels could be used for cover if something came through the wrong hatch. She knew how far she would have to move to intercept someone reaching for the command area, and which route would let her do it without crossing Helm’s line of movement.
Security was not paranoia if the threat was real.
It was only paranoia if one forgot to keep thinking.
Riley took a slow breath through her nose and let it out just as carefully.
Breathe. Watch. Protect.
The probe, if it launched, would become another point in the pattern. Another thing outside the hull. Another small piece of the Yeager stretching into the dark and hoping the dark did not notice.
Riley could live with that.
But she was not going to trust the dark to be polite.
== Tag Braggins, Qab’ataar, Bridge ==