Diagnostics

The Bridge of the Wayfarer was terribly quite late at night. Just the silent hum of the straining engines kept Ward tethered to the world outside his monitor pulled close. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the console at his post.

Several keystrokes input board rang out to the dead silence listening as he crunched the numbers again.

“Dammit…” he sighed and leaned his head back against the captain chair, his hands moving to cover his tired eyes with his wrists. “Malik is spot on.”

Not that he had any reason to doubt him at all. Malik had been the best in his pool, but something tugged at Ward’s mind and wouldn’t let go. But now there was no denying it.

“… We are drifting too far.”

For a moment, he didn’t move.

But with a sharp exhale through his nostrils, he threw himself forward again, fingers landing back onto his board again. But they didn’t move as his eyes narrowed to bring the edges back into focus again.

Once again, he moved his fingers to his eyes once more, rubbing the creeping sleep from them.

“Captain,” the soft voice of Jeannie chirped in his ears, “It is currently 300 hour. This is the alarm you requested.”

Without moving his hands from his eyes, he propped his head up using his elbows on the arm rests. “Thank you, Jeannie.”

Again, he paused for a moment.

“Jeannie?” he waited for the chirp of her listening before moving again, straightening up again, “Pull all available sensor data from Sections E through G. Focus on movement readings post sealing.”

Jeannie paused. Then–

Compiling,” replied the ship.

Ward’s monitor flashed before lines of data populated the screen in neat columns. Timestamps. Heat signatures. Motion flags.

Ward leaned forward slightly, studying the information.

“Movement readings within sealed sections are sparse,” Jeannie explained, “No sustained activity detected.”

Ward’s eyes narrowed as he set his jaw tight. He scrolled through the feed, isolating a cluster of flagged entries. “These,” he tapped the display, “Transient spikes. And close together over a short time. Elaborate.”

“Localized sensor noise,” Jeannie replied promptly, “Consistent with structural stress and residual thermal fluctuation following impact.”

Without his eyes leaving the screen, he pressed on. “Isn’t that exactly what Petrov was saying?”

“Correct,” Jeannie answered, even and uninfected, “I recalculated all instances based on feedback given and came to the conclusion that Chief Engineer Petrov is correct in his assertion.”

Ward didn’t answer immediately. Just shaking his head, “Even the computer gives him more credence than me.” He replayed the sequence a couple of times. The spikes were there, brief and irregular, but tight in successions. But they were erratic in the rhythm and soft in their intensity. Nothing that should have produced the kind of report Hughes and Rodgers had given.

“Cross-reference audio logs from the same timestamps.”

“Processing,” the ship’s computer started instantly upon command.

The screen shifted. Audio waveforms appeared, thin and still.

“No audio signatures detected,” Jeannie finished.

Ward exhaled slowly through his nose, “Nothing?”

“Captain, the sections are currently experiencing vacuum environments. Soundwaves cannot travel in such conditions. No readings can be analyzed at this moment.”

“What about vibrations in the walls?”

For a moment Jeannie didn’t respond.

“No anomalous vibrations detected,” she finally replied just before Ward was going to ask again.

“Define anomalous.”

“Sounds inconsistent with known operation or environmental baselines,” her response was quick and sharp.

Ward paused, considering the answer given. “Pull audio, all forms, within those windows regardless of classifications.”

A beat.

“Retrieving,” Jeannie chirped again.

The playback that followed was thin, but there was something there. Distant hums. Occasional creaks of stressed metal. The low and distant whisper of air cycling through the ship.

But no banging.

Ward leaned back slightly, eyes still locked on the screen. His wrists resting on his brow. “Hughes and Rodgers reported impact noise from inside the sealed section.”

“Yes,” she replied.

“And you’re telling me there’s no corresponding audio?”

“Correct,” she replied.

His jaw tightened, just slightly.

“Re-evaluate movement readings in those same windows,” he commanded, leaning forward again, “Widen the parameters.”

“Parameters expanded,” Jeannie continued.

The data shifted. Though spikes reappeared, much the same, no more defined than before.

“Still negligible,” Jeannie concluded.

Ward’s fingers tapped on the edge of his arm rest. “What constitutes negligible?”

“A level of activity insufficient to indicate organized or sustained motion.”

“I didn’t ask what the definition was.” His tone sharpened, “Now quantify it.”

Another pause.

“Variance falls within the acceptable post-impact tolerances,” Jeannie answered, “Deviation does not exceed predictive models.

Ward clenched his fist as he scanned over the earlier logs. He pulled them together, aligning timestamps side by side.

Identical.

He stared at them, unmoving.

A moment passed.

“Jeannie,” he started again, slower this time, “Are there any record instances of false-positive motion readings in sealed sections prior to this event?”

“No,” her answer was instantaneous.

“In all history recorded by all ships in our fleet?”

“No,” the answer was just as quick.

“And since the event?”

A beat.

“Yes,” she finally answered.

He frowned. “Frequency?”

“Intermittent,” the ship chirped.

“That’s not a frequency.”

Another fractional delay. “Occurrences are irregular and do not follow any discernible pattern.”

Ward let out a quiet breath, something between a sigh and restraint. “Could crew activity account for readings?”

“No crew detected within sealed sections,” Jeannie replied.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Crew proximity to bulkheads may produce indirect sensor interference,” she explained, "Unintentional contact, equipment vibration, or procedural error could contribute to transient readings.”

Ward’s eyes lingered on the data for a moment, “Procedural error?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“Hughes and Rodgers are both certified for structural repair. Their procedures should be sound.”

“Certification does not preclude deviation,” Jeannie replied evenly, “And current structures would be classified as irregular procedures.”

He didn’t respond, at first, just absorbing the information for a moment.

“You are hard to argue with, you know?”

“I do not recommend arguing with me,” Jeannie chirped.

“You’re worse than my mother,” he shook his head as he pulled up visual logs. There wasn’t much remaining. The footage from the impact was still fragmented, most of it lost to corrupted buffers and systems overload. What remained played in jagged segments.

An empty corridor.

A flicker.

Then–

Impact.

No approach. No trajectory. Just a sudden presence and immediate collision. As if something had been inserted into the space a fraction of a second before contact.

Ward watched it again. And again. Each time, resolving the same way. No impending movement. No warning. Just absence, then solid form.

“Jeannie,” he asked, eyes still on the screen, “Is there any recorded object on approach prior to impact.”

“No,” she answered.

“Reconstruct trajectory from collision vector.”

Insufficient data,” the response was immediate.

“Estimate.”

“Error margin exceeds acceptable thresholds for predictive modeling.” Her tone was even, but it felt like a warning.

Ward’s hand stilled on the console. “Run an estimate anyway.”

A pause.

“No trajectory can be reliably determined.” Jeannie finally answered.

Silence settled over the room. Ward leaned back, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The glow of the screen felt harsher now, too bright against the darkness filling the Bridge.

“Captain,” Jeannie chirped up again, “It is currently 315 hour. Perhaps you should get some rest.”

“Is there anything you’re not telling me?”

His question stepped on the end of Jeannie’s words.

“No,” the answer came without hesitation.

He let his hand drop. For a moment, he simply stared at the display. The clean lines of data, the orderly presentation, the quiet certainty of it all. It should have made sense.

It didn’t.

“Run a full systems diagnostic on sensor arrays covering Sections E through G.”

“Diagnostic already in progress.” the ship replied.

“Report once completed,” he said after a long sigh.

Silence followed. The hum of the ship filled the space between them.

After a moment, Ward leaned forward again, tapping a few commands out of habit more than intent. The same data. The same answers. Clean. Ordered. Complete.

And somehow lacking.

His hand hovered over his input board, then dropped to his sides.

“That’s enough,” he yawned. The feeling hitting him like a ton of bricks.

The display dimmed at his command, collapsing into a black glassy surface. The room fell quieter without its glow. Ward sat there for a second, eyes unfocused while momentarily fighting back his sleep deprivation. His mind was still working through threads that refused to connect.

Then something shifted.

In the reflection of the darkened screen. Something just behind him. Just over his shoulder.

Someone stood there.

Ward’s breath caught, just slightly.

“Hey…” he started, trying to come up with an excuse as to why his subordinate should see him with such bad bags under his eyes. “What are you doing up at this–”

He stopped.

The room behind him was empty. Still. Silent.

No one by the door. No one by any of the other consoles. Nothing but the low, straining hum of the ship.

“–hour?” Ward frowned, scanning the space as if something might filter in if he looked hard enough.

Nothing did.

After a moment, he let out a slow breath and turned back toward the console. The black screen reflected only himself now. Tired eyes, drawn features, the faint outline of the bandage across his brow.

He watched for a second longer.

Then he pushed himself up from the chair.

“Just tired,” he muttered to no one in particular. The words felt sufficient enough to leave unchallenged.

He crossed the room and opened the only hatch to the Bridge. It hissed before opening, the only sound besides the hum of the ship settling back into something almost comforting.

He paused. For a brief moment, his gaze drifted back toward the console. The screen remained dark, only being lit by the amber lights of emergency lights flittering in from the connecting passage.

Nothing was there in its reflection.

Ward turned away and stepped through the corridor, the door sealing shut behind him with a soft, final hiss.