Starlight, Starbright (STARLIGHT CHRISTMAS)

Chapter 1 Paige

PAIGE

The plasma conduit hums three octaves lower than it should.

I press my palm against the access panel, feeling the vibration through my skin. Wrong. All wrong.

“Chief, you've been down here for eleven hours.” Jian Li's voice cuts through the background roar of the engine core. “Jenkins fell asleep at his station twenty minutes ago. I sent him to his bunk.”

I don't look up from the data streaming across my tablet. “Did you check the secondary coupling on Deck 9?”

“Twice. It's clean.” She crouches beside me, her small frame fitting easily into the cramped space between conduits. “Paige. When's the last time you slept?”

The answer is thirty-six hours ago, but I don't say it. Instead I pull up the full pattern analysis I've been building for two weeks. “Look at this. A recurring dip in plasma flow. It recovers within ninety seconds. No alarms trip. No safety protocols engage. The system compensates automatically.”

“So it's working as designed.”

“No.” I zoom in on the frequency graph. “A normal fluctuation would vary. Temperature changes, crew usage patterns, natural wear on the components—all of that would create irregular data. This is a metronome. Someone's testing something.”

Jian studies the graph, her dark eyes moving rapidly. She's brilliant with diagnostics, maybe better than me at the tedious analysis work. “What kind of test needs three weeks?”

“The kind that's building to something bigger.” I close the tablet and lever myself up, my knees protesting.

The deck plates vibrate constantly at this depth, a rhythm I usually find soothing.

Tonight it feels like a warning. “We need more monitoring equipment. I want sensors on every junction between here and the bridge.”

“Burton won't approve the requisition.” Her voice goes flat. “He'll say you're overreacting again.”

My eyes find Walsh Burton at the far end of Engineering, his focus on a diagnostic panel. He's been pulling double shifts—compensation, no doubt, for being passed over when I got the chief position. He glances up, sees me watching, and gives a brief nod before returning to his work.

I shove my tablet into my tool bag, the metal clanging against the flux wrench I forgot to put back in its slot. “Then I'll install them myself. Off the books.”

“You're going to get in trouble.”

“I'm already in trouble if I'm right and do nothing.” I squeeze her shoulder as I pass. “Go get some sleep. That's an order.”

She leaves, but I can tell from her footsteps she doesn't believe I'll follow my own advice. Smart kid. I pull out my wrench and open the next access panel, chasing the hum through the ship's arteries, trying to find the source before whatever's coming arrives.

The memory hits me hard: the Valiant , eight years ago, after the collision with debris that shouldn't have been there.

I'd been junior crew then, too low-ranked to question the chief engineer's assessment that the damage was superficial.

Three days later, the power core destabilized during a routine jump.

Seventeen people died in the explosion. I'd been in sick bay with a broken arm, or I'd have been one of them.

Ten thousand people on this ship. Every soul aboard depending on me.

I barely manage to scrub the worst of the grease off my hands before the briefing.

The conference room feels too cold after hours in Engineering's swelter.

I'm late—the wall chrono shows 0745, and the meeting started at 0730—but Captain Zoric simply nods at the empty seat across from him.

The briefing room is smaller than standard, designed for efficiency rather than comfort.

Six chairs around a brushed steel table, harsh overhead lighting that makes everyone look tired, and a wall display currently showing our course trajectory.

Commander Tanaka sits to Zoric's right, her regulation-perfect uniform making me acutely aware of my rumpled jumpsuit and the oil stain I missed on my sleeve.

Tobias Hale, head of security, occupies the chair beside her.

His pale blue eyes track my entrance, cataloging details like he's building a file.

“Chief Martin.” Zoric's voice has this quality that makes me think of deep water—dark and calm on the surface, with currents running underneath.

He's been aboard two months now, long enough for me to learn he values data over intuition, evidence over hunches.

Long enough to notice things like how his voice seems to resonate in the room, or how those silver markings along his temples shift when he's processing information. “Your report?”

I pull up my data on the central display, replacing the navigation chart. “We're looking at a pattern of power fluctuations across three weeks. Small enough that the automated systems compensate, but precise enough that it can't be natural degradation.”

“Precise how?” Tanaka leans forward, her attention sharp.

“The fluctuations occur every seventy-two hours, at exactly oh-two-hundred hours. Same magnitude each time—0.3% decrease in plasma flow, ninety-second duration.” I highlight the relevant sections.

“This is the distribution curve for normal system variation.

This is what we're seeing. The difference is statistically impossible.”

Hale frowns at the display, making a note on his tablet. “That's a serious accusation. Could be a programming error in the monitoring system, equipment failure, even user error. The data might be corrupted.”

“I physically measured the frequency at the conduit.

It's real.” I meet his gaze as his questions continue, each one seemingly designed to poke holes in the theory.

“Even Senior Supervisor Burton agrees. He reviewed the same data at his console and said, 'Chief's right about the frequency.

That's too regular for component failure.

' He pulled up a secondary analysis. 'Here—this correlates with shift changes.

Someone who knows our schedules.' And someone with engineering access would need to create this pattern. It requires manual override of the automated distribution protocols.”

The room goes quiet. Zoric's markings shift in the harsh light.

Silver-white lines trace his temples and disappear into his midnight hair.

They've been steady since I entered, but now they brighten slightly.

I've seen them do this before when he's processing complex information, though I don't know if he's aware of how much they reveal.

“Your assessment?” His eyes are dark enough that I can't distinguish iris from pupil, and I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact even though he's sitting and I'm standing.

“Someone's testing the system's response time and compensation ability. Building a baseline.” The words come out flatter than I intend. “If I wanted to sabotage this ship without triggering alarms, this is how I'd start.”

Tanaka exchanges a glance with Zoric. “That's a serious accusation.”

“It's a serious pattern.” I don't back down. “We have documented evidence of system manipulation. The only question is what they're planning and when.”

Zoric studies the data for a long moment, his fingers steepled in front of him.

When he speaks, it's slow and measured. “These are concerning findings. Continue documenting. If this is sabotage, we need sufficient evidence to identify the perpetrator and predict their next move without causing panic among the crew or colonists.”

It's reasonable. Logical. Exactly what I expected him to say. Still, frustration builds in my chest because “Continue documenting” means “Don't act yet,” and every instinct I have says we're running out of time.

“What if we don't have time to document?” I keep my voice level. “What if the next test isn't a test?”

“Then we'll handle it.” He stands, and suddenly I'm reminded of the physical reality of him. He's tall enough that I have to look up despite being 5'8” myself, shoulders broad enough to block the wall display behind him. “But we won't create chaos based on speculation. Dismissed.”

The others file out. I'm gathering my data when Zoric speaks again.

“Chief Martin.”

I turn. He's still standing by the table, his markings shifting in that slow rhythm. Not quite steady.

“I take your concerns seriously,” he says. “Your expertise is why you hold this position. But this ship carries everyone aboard. I can't order emergency protocols without certainty.”

“I understand.” And I do, even if it makes me want to throw my tablet across the room. “Sir.”

“Continue your investigation. If you find evidence of imminent threat, come to me immediately. Any hour.” He pauses. “Your instincts have value, even if they can't be quantified in a report.”

The words catch me off-guard enough that I look up and meet his eyes directly.

The markings along his temples brighten slightly.

For a moment we just stand there, the table between us, and I'm aware of how tall he is, how the light catches the silver tracery on his skin.

Professional respect, yes. But something else too, something I don't have time to examine.

I nod and step back, breaking whatever that was. “Thank you, sir.”

I leave before I say something unprofessional about how much good my instincts will do after the ship explodes.

Three hours later, I'm on the civilian deck helping Giorgi Perrin and his volunteer committee hang holiday decorations.

The contrast between here and Engineering is always jarring.

Where the lower decks are all harsh utility and exposed conduits, the habitation rings were designed for comfort.

High ceilings, warm lighting that mimics natural sunlight, and actual trees growing in hydroponics planters along the central corridor.

Right now, someone's piped in music through the public address system, some ancient recording of bells and orchestral strings that Perrin swears is traditional.

“Higher,” Perrin calls up to me. “The garland needs to drape, not sag.”

I'm balanced on a ladder, stretching to hook fake greenery over a support beam. The plastic pine needles feel waxy under my fingers, and the whole thing smells vaguely chemical. “It's only early December. You're starting decorations early.”

“Exactly why we need to start now.” Perrin grins up at me, his round face cheerful despite the logistics headache of coordinating decorations across three habitation rings. “By the time Christmas arrives, everyone will be so used to the lights they won't remember what darkness looked like.”

There's probably something profound in that, some metaphor about hope and preparation and long journeys. I hook the garland and climb down, accepting the next section from Yuki Tanaka (no relation to the commander) who's been untangling strings of lights for the past hour.

“My grandmother always put up decorations the day after Thanksgiving,” I say, testing the garland's weight. “She'd make everyone help, even my uncles who complained the whole time. Took us three days to cover the house.”

“What was your favorite part?” Yuki asks.

The question catches me off guard. I haven't thought about Grandma's house in years.

Not since before I joined the Coalition and started moving from ship to ship, chasing positions and trying to prove I was good enough that another disaster wouldn't happen on my watch.

“The star,” I say finally. “She had this old star for the top of the tree, all tarnished silver and crystal. She said her mother brought it from Mexico when she immigrated. It was supposed to bring light to travelers.”

Perrin makes a note on his tablet. “We should find you a star, then. For the main tree in the plaza.”

I start to protest that I'm not sentimental, that I'm only here because Perrin asked nicely and I needed a break from staring at data, but movement catches my eye.

Up on the observation walkway that overlooks the corridor (the one crew uses to monitor civilian areas without being intrusive) Captain Zoric stands watching.

He's not hiding. Just observing, arms crossed, his expression unreadable at this distance.

But there's something about his posture, the slight tilt of his head, that suggests puzzlement.

I imagine what this must look like to him: dozens of humans hanging fake plants and colored lights, playing music that has no functional purpose, preparing for a holiday that celebrates concepts his people have spent centuries trying to suppress.

I raise my hand in a wave. Awkward. Probably too casual for someone waving at their captain. But he responds with a formal nod, and then he's gone, disappearing down the corridor like he was never there.

“The captain doesn't understand Christmas, does he?” Yuki says softly.

“I don't think Zephyrians do holidays.” I turn back to the ladder. “They're big on logic and efficiency. Christmas is neither.”

Perrin laughs. “Then we'll have to show him what he's missing. That's what this season is about—bringing light to people who've forgotten how to see it.”

I climb the ladder again, reaching for the next hook. I focus on the garland, the smell of artificial pine, and the sound of children laughing as they run past chasing glittering ribbons of tinsel.

Ten thousand people on this ship. The colonists depending on systems I maintain. And somewhere, buried in the data and the power fluctuations and the too-precise patterns, there's a threat I haven't fully uncovered yet.

I hook the last section of garland and step back to admire the effect. The lights aren't even plugged in yet, but already the corridor looks different. Warmer, somehow. More like a home than a vessel.

Perrin pats my shoulder as I descend. “Thanks for the help, Chief. We'll get those main lights installed tomorrow.”

“The Starbright grid?” I ask, referring to the jury-rigged secondary lighting system that civilians cobbled together using repurposed data conduits.

It's technically against regulations, but it's also brilliant—a testament to human adaptability and the kind of creative problem-solving that drives engineers like me crazy and fills me with pride at the same time.

“That's the one. We'll have the whole ship lit up by December.”

I gather my tools, shouldering my bag. “Just make sure you're not overloading any circuits. I don't need another systems failure to track.”

“Always so serious.” But he's smiling. “See you tomorrow, Chief.”

I wave and head for the lift, my shoulders aching from the ladder work, my mind already returning to the problem waiting for me in Engineering. Days until the next test. Not many.

The lift doors close. Through the closing gap, I can see the garland we hung, the lights waiting to be installed, the promise of brightness in the cold dark of space.

It's enough to keep me going. It has to be.