Paige
The power grid is failing in sections. Not all at once. That would almost be better.
Two days until Christmas. Two days that we might not have if I can't stop this.
“Chief, I'm losing containment on the plasma feeds.” Jian's voice cuts through the chaos. She's at the secondary console, hands moving across controls, trying to redirect power that keeps disappearing. “Every time I compensate for one failure, another system drops offline.”
“I see it.” The display shows what I already know. Someone designed this cascade. Each failure creates the conditions for the next. Elegant. Methodical. The kind of thing that takes weeks to plan and seconds to execute.
The comm crackles. “Engineering, this is Medical. We're getting reports of temperature fluctuations in the civilian quarters. People are panicking.”
“Tell them we're working on it.” I pull up the environmental controls. The numbers make no sense. Power consumption shows normal levels, but distribution patterns are wrong. Like someone rerouted the feeds through inefficient pathways, creating bottlenecks and pressure points.
Another alarm. This one from structural integrity. Hull stress in sections that shouldn't be experiencing stress.
Jian looks up, her face pale. “Chief. If we lose structural integrity...”
“We won't.” I move to her station, scanning the data. The hull isn't actually failing. The sensors are. Someone's feeding false readings into the system, making us think we're falling apart when we're just wounded.
Clever. Make us so busy chasing phantom problems that we miss the real ones.
Music starts playing over the shipwide comm. Not alarms. Not emergency broadcasts. Music. Christmas carols.
The sound is tinny through the engineering deck's old speakers, but I recognize the melody.
“Silent Night.” A choir singing in harmony, voices layered over simple instrumentation.
I wonder if it's Giorgi Perrin. This feels like something he'd do—decide that people need hope even when systems are failing. Especially when systems are failing.
I blink hard, forcing my vision to clear. No time for emotion. Only time for solutions.
“Marcus, take over environmental.” I assign tasks, spreading my team across the failing systems. “Perrin, you're on structural sensors.
Verify actual hull integrity, ignore the readouts.
Yuki, comms and navigation. I want to know if we're getting accurate external data or if someone's poisoning that feed too.”
They move. My people are good. Exhausted, scared, but good.
I route power manually, bypassing automated systems that someone's corrupted.
The work requires focus I barely have after days of investigation and fear.
My hands shake slightly as I input commands.
Not from fear. From exhaustion and the weight of knowing that if I fail, everyone dies.
Environmental in Ring B stabilizes. Life support pressure equalizes. Small victories.
But the cascade continues. For every system I repair, two more degrade. Like fighting a fire that spreads faster than I can contain it.
My console flashes red. Critical alert. The primary power coupling is overloading.
“Jian, I need you on the primary coupling. Now.”
“On it.” She's already moving, grabbing tools, heading for the access corridor.
I keep working. Rerouting, compensating, stealing power from non-essential systems to keep life support functional. The calculations blur together. Numbers and equations and desperate math trying to hold a ship together through sheer stubbornness.
My eyes burn. I refuse to cry. Crying is for after everyone survives. For after I've saved them. For after I've proven that my paranoia was justified and my solutions are sound.
The primary coupling holds. Barely. Jian returns with singed gloves and a grim expression. “Bought us maybe two days. Then it goes critical for real. The degradation is accelerating.”
Two days. Environmental stabilizes in Ring B. Life support pressure equalizes in sections 4 through 7. The sensor ghosts clear as I strip corrupted feeds from the system.
Brief stability. We have hours, maybe a day, before it all comes apart again.
I retreat to my office, pulling up the full damage assessment. Need to see the complete picture. Need to understand what we're really facing.
The numbers resolve on my screen. I stare at them. Run the calculations again. Get the same answer.
My legs give out.
I slide down the wall beside my desk, ending up on the floor with my knees pulled up and my tablet showing impossible math.
The metal wall is cold against my back. The carols are playing “The First Noel” now, muffled through my office door, and the beauty of it makes something crack inside my chest.
Someone planned this perfectly. Someone who knows exactly how I think, how I work, how I solve problems. They designed this cascade specifically to beat me.
The door opens. Footsteps. I don't look up.
“Paige.”
Zoric's voice.
“We're not going to make it.” The admission is a flat, dead weight in the air. “I've tried everything. But whoever designed this knew exactly what they were doing. They beat me.”
Silence. Then he's crouching in front of me, his hands on my arms.
“That's not true.”
“Yes it is.” I finally look at him. His face is tight with worry. “Look at the data. We have two days before the coupling blows for good. Even if I shut down every non-essential system, we don't have enough power to maintain life support for ten thousand people. The math doesn't work.”
“Then we find a different equation.”
“There isn't one!” My voice breaks. “I'm good, Zoric. I'm really good. But I'm not good enough for this.”
His hands tighten on my arms. His markings flare brilliant gold, flooding my small office with warm light.
He pulls me up. Not gently. Firmly, lifting me to my feet, and then his mouth is on mine.
Desperate. Certain. Absolutely overwhelming.
I freeze for half a second. Then my hands are in his hair, pulling him closer, kissing him back like he's the only solid thing in a universe falling apart.
He's warm. So warm. His skin feels like heated stone under my palms, and his mouth tastes faintly of the terrible coffee from the mess hall. His hands slide from my arms to my waist, pulling me against him, and every point of contact sends heat flooding through me.
The kiss breaks. We're both gasping. His forehead rests against mine. Even with my eyes closed, I feel surrounded by warmth and light.
“I should have done this days ago,” he says. His voice is wrecked. Raw.
“Weeks ago,” I correct breathlessly.
Then I'm pulling him back down, kissing him again because now that I've started I can't stop. My back hits the desk. His hands are on my hips, my waist, my face. His skin is warm against mine, heat and light and touch.
I arch into him. Wrap my arms around his neck. His heart beats fast under my palm when I slide my hand to his chest.
“I've wanted—”
The ship-wide comm crackles to life. Not an alarm. A voice.
Walsh's voice. Calm. Authoritative. “This is Senior Supervisor Burton. As you can see, our integrated systems are failing. Alien command has led us to the brink of disaster.”
We break apart, turning toward the speaker.
“I am officially invoking emergency protocol 7-Delta,” Walsh continues. “All non-essential personnel are to prepare for hibernation. We will configure the ship for minimal life support, beacon the Terran Colonial Authority, and await rescue by qualified human engineers.”
“He's making a coup,” I whisper, staring at the speaker.
Zoric is already moving, grabbing his comm unit. “Tanaka, status.”
“He's locked us out of the comms, Captain,” Tanaka's voice replies, tinny from Zoric's small device. “He's broadcasting on an engineering channel. We can't override.”
Zoric looks at me. His markings are still gold, but his expression is hard. “Go. Save them.”
But something's changed. The kiss, Walsh's broadcast—it all broke something open inside me. Cleared away the despair that was paralyzing my thoughts.
I turn to the console. Pull up the power grid. See the same failing systems, the same impossible math.
But now I see something else too.