“On who?” the systems officer asks.
I don’t hesitate.
“Stacy.”
There’s a pause.
Too long.
“...She’s not on the bridge,” he says carefully.
“I’m aware,” I reply, my voice tightening just slightly. “Find her.”
His fingers move quickly across the interface, pulling up internal trackers, access logs, movement patterns.
“Last confirmed location…” he mutters, then hesitates.
“Say it,” I snap.
“Lower operations tier,” he says. “Approximately forty minutes ago.”
Forty minutes.
Too long.
“Current position?” I demand.
He runs the scan again, deeper this time.
“I’m not getting a lock,” he says.
The words hit wrong.
“What do you mean you’re not getting a lock?” Vihl asks sharply.
“I mean her signal isn’t registering,” the officer replies, tension creeping into his voice. “It’s… gone.”
The hum of the ship feels louder.
Heavier.
“Run it again,” I say.
“I am,” he says quickly. “I’m checking secondary?—”
“Do it faster.”
His hands move faster.
Still nothing.
I feel it then.
Clear.
Sharp.
That wrongness snapping into place with sudden, brutal clarity.
