The world flares white. A searing, physical shriek rips through Artemis’s ears, then abruptly cuts out. Her vision collapses into swirling phantom lights, a kaleidoscope of agony behind her eyelids. She stumbles, her boots skidding on loose plating, and crashes against a console, the impact jarring her teeth. A metallic tang fills her mouth. Her head rings like a blown reactor, a high-pitched whine that vibrates in her bones. Slowly, agonizingly, the phantom lights recede. The bridge of the Beowulf emerges from the haze, but it is not the same. Dust hangs thick in the air, swirling in the weak emergency lights that flicker overhead. Sparks rain down from severed conduits near the main viewscreen. The air crackles with ozone, heavy and acrid. The tactical displays are dark, shattered. Her comms unit, usually a reassuring weight against her ear, is silent, dead. She taps it, presses it hard against her temple. Nothing. Just the continued, painful whine in her skull. "Report!" she shouts, but her voice sounds thin, swallowed by the cavernous silence. The sheer lack of feedback is unnerving. No static, no crackle, just the distant groan of tortured metal. She spins, scanning the chaos. Ramirez is slumped against a console, his rifle dropped, shaking his head slowly. Reyna is pushing herself up, a hand pressed to her temple, her eyes wide with shock. Commander Jaxon is on one knee, blood trickling from a cut above his eye, his breathing ragged. Artemis pushes off the console, her own body protesting. She raises her hand, making a tight fist, then points two fingers at her eyes, then at Jaxon. *Look at me. Are you okay?* He nods, grimacing, wiping blood with the back of his hand. She moves to Ramirez, checks his pulse point. Steady, but his pupils are dilated. *Concussion?* She doesn't have time. Her father’s log replays in her mind, a spectral whisper: *ancient power… dissipates organic organic matter… must not fall into Vance’s hands.* The words coil in her gut, a cold dread. What just happened here? She sweeps her arm in a wide arc, then makes a flat horizontal gesture. *Comms are down.* Jaxon mirrors her, then points to the main entrance, making a quick, decisive slicing motion across his throat. *Cut off.* The Kilrathi infiltrator, Whisperfang, is gone. Vanished. The blinding flash, the shrieking pulse—it wasn't just a distraction. It was a weapon. An electromagnetic pulse, perhaps, precise and devastating. It disabled them, isolated them. This place, once Admiral Shand’s bridge, now feels like a tomb. Every groan of the ship, every fresh shower of sparks, promises collapse. --- A guttural shriek of tearing metal echoes through the Beowulf. The deck plates shudder violently, throwing Artemis off balance. Her hand clamps onto a railing, knuckles white. A low-frequency hum, already present, suddenly rises in pitch, becoming a piercing drone. Red emergency lights flare, strobing erratically, plunging the bridge into a strobe-lit nightmare. "Hull breach!" Jaxon shouts, his voice raw. He points towards the main corridor leading back to their shuttle, a panicked urgency in his gesture. Through the strobing lights, Artemis sees it: a jagged, fresh tear in the bulkhead, directly across their path. Twisted metal peels back like torn paper, revealing the black void of space beyond. A burst of icy condensation plumes inward, dissipating quickly in the thin, stale air of the derelict. Alarms, distinct from the bridge's own failing systems, blare from the direction of the breach, a high-pitched wail. The corridor is impassable. Not only compromised, but actively losing atmosphere, the tell-tale hiss of escaping air audible even over the groaning ship. Her heart pounds against her ribs. Their primary exit is gone. She glances back at the main viewscreen, still dark, then to the internal schematics panel, miraculously still flickering despite the EMP. The auxiliary corridor, a maintenance tunnel rarely used, might still be viable. It’s a longer route, winding through sections of the ship she hasn’t scouted, through darkened, unstable decks. But it’s their only option. She points sharply towards the auxiliary access panel, a grime-caked hatchway near the rear of the bridge. Then she gestures to Jaxon, then to Ramirez and Reyna, making a clear *move out* motion. Ramirez is still dazed, but Reyna is already helping him to his feet, her gaze fixed on Artemis, awaiting orders. The Beowulf groans again, a deep, resonant sound that vibrates through her boots. She feels it in her teeth. Every second they spend here, the ship dies a little more. Leaving this bridge, leaving the echoes of her father’s last stand, feels like a retreat, a betrayal. The data chip with his final log still burns in her pocket, a secret she needs to understand, a warning she needs to heed. *Ancient power…* The words swirl with the dust. But her crew, her *people*, are more important. Their lives weigh heavier than any answer this derelict can offer. Her jaw tightens. She will not fail them. Not here. Not now. --- The auxiliary corridor is a labyrinth of rusted pipes and exposed wiring. Dust motes dance in the beam of Artemis’s shoulder lamp, creating fleeting patterns on the grimy bulkheads. Every step kicks up decades of accumulated debris, filling the air with a metallic, forgotten smell. The ship’s groaning is louder here, more immediate, a constant reminder of their precarious existence. Jaxon moves stiffly, his hand pressed to the cut above his eye. Blood has dried there, a dark smear against his pale skin. He helps Reyna support Ramirez, whose movements are still sluggish, his head lolling slightly. "Commander," Jaxon rasps, his voice strained, "we need to accelerate. This section feels… unstable." He gestures vaguely upwards, where a hairline crack spiderwebs across a ceiling panel, expanding subtly even as he watches. Artemis sweeps her lamp ahead, illuminating a section where the floor plating has buckled, creating a treacherous rise and fall. "We can’t go faster than Ramirez can manage," she replies, her voice tight. "He needs to keep his head." She steps onto the warped metal, testing it, then turns back. "What’s your status, Jaxon? That cut looks deeper than I first thought." "Superficial, Commander. Just a scratch." He waves off her concern, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that demands attention. "But we’re burning precious oxygen here. Every moment is a risk. The Argonaut is our priority. *Your* priority." His gaze flickers to the data chip she clutches in her left hand, a silent accusation. He knows she wants to stay. He knows the weight of her father’s ghost. "We secured the log. We know what Vance did. That's enough for now." The words sting, a cold splash of reality. He’s right. The Argonaut is her command, her responsibility. Her father’s warning about the 'ancient power' echoes, a temptation to delve deeper, to understand the mechanism that dissolved the Olympus crew. But the faces of her team, bruised and shaken, ground her. Her oath isn't to ghosts, but to the living. She looks at Jaxon, then at the struggling Ramirez. "Alright," she says, a heavy breath escaping her. "Move them. I’ll clear the path." She steps ahead, pushing aside a tangled mess of defunct cables, forcing her way deeper into the Beowulf's decaying heart, towards their only way out. --- The shuttle’s cargo bay is a familiar comfort, its stable deck plating and functional lights a stark contrast to the Beowulf's derelict interior. Ramirez slumps onto a jump seat, groaning softly, while Reyna quickly begins patching Jaxon’s cut, her medical kit efficient and clean. Artemis secures the hatch, the heavy thunk of its seal a finality. They are safe. For now. The shuttle detaches from the Beowulf with a gentle lurch, its thrusters kicking in. Artemis moves to the cockpit, taking the co-pilot seat. The Beowulf recedes in the viewscreen, a ghostly hulk against the distant stars, still groaning, still shedding debris into the void. She watches it, a lingering sense of unfinished business churning in her gut. So much more to uncover. So many questions still hanging in the dust-choked air of its bridge. "Approaching Argonaut docking bay, Commander," the pilot reports, his voice calm. "Standard approach, no anomalies detected." Relief washes over her, a warm wave she hadn’t realized she was holding back. The Argonaut represents safety, home. A place where comms work, where a full engineering team can assess her father’s log. The shuttle slides into the docking bay with a soft bump. The internal airlock cycles open, and the familiar scent of recycled air and hydraulic fluid fills the cabin. Chief Engineer Thorne is waiting, alongside Ensign Kael, their faces etched with concern. Artemis gives them a weary nod, then turns back to help Jaxon out of his seat. Just as the last of her team steps onto the Argonaut’s deck, Kael’s voice, sharp with alarm, cuts through the controlled chatter. "Commander! Incoming warp signature! Massive! Unidentified Kilrathi capital ship!" Artemis whirls, grabbing Thorne's arm, pulling him towards the nearest internal viewscreen. The screen flickers to life, showing the black expanse of space behind the Beowulf. There, where only moments ago had been an empty void, a colossal Kilrathi carrier now hung. It was unlike any design she had ever seen, its hull a brutalist wedge of dark metal, dwarfing even the derelict Beowulf. Its sheer scale was monstrous, a dark leviathan that seemed to drink the light from the stars. Its hangar bays, massive dark maw-like apertures, were already cycling open. Swarms of Kilrathi fighters, countless specks against its monstrous bulk, poured forth, a tide of death already arrowing towards both the crippled Beowulf and the unsuspecting Argonaut.

Screams in the Silence