06-26-2026, 02:30 PM
The turbolift doors opened onto a Bridge that sounded as if the Yeager had decided to hold her breath.
Riley Wright stepped out with a Security PADD tucked against her side and stopped just long enough for the change to register. The lighting had dropped low. Consoles glowed with restrained output. The familiar background rhythm of a starship at full readiness had been pared down to something quieter, thinner, and deliberately uncomfortable.
Condition Grey.
Not the clean textbook version, either. Captain Braggins had kept the warp core at minimal output and Tactical had weapons on standby, which meant the Yeager was not truly asleep.
She was pretending.
That is somehow less comforting.
Life support had already been reduced. The air moved more slowly than Riley liked, and the subdued deck vibration made the Bridge feel smaller than it was. She knew the difference between a starship running dark and a damaged airlock. Her lungs did not care about the distinction as much as her brain did.
Not an airlock.
The thought came before she could stop it. Annoying. Automatic. Useful.
Riley took one measured breath, then another, and moved.
T’Varen was already crossing away from the Science station, apparently relieved now that Midshipman Qab’ataar had arrived to handle the probe telemetry. The Vulcan’s posture remained as composed as ever, but Riley knew her well enough to read the small details others missed: the precise economy of her steps, the faint narrowing of focus in someone who had completed one task but had not stopped analyzing the next six.
Their paths crossed near the turbolift.
For half a second, Riley’s expression softened.
“Leaving all the fun to the rest of us?” Riley asked quietly, her voice low enough not to disturb the tense calm of the Bridge.
T’Varen gave her the briefest look, one eyebrow shifting by a degree that would have been invisible to almost anyone else.
“The situation does not appear to qualify as fun,” T’Varen replied evenly.
Riley’s mouth twitched.
“Yeah. That sounds like your official assessment.”
There was more she could have said. A dozen things, probably. Are you all right? What did I miss? Tell me how bad this actually is. But the Bridge was not the Academy, and they were not cadets lingering after a drill while one of them vented and the other quietly rearranged the universe into something manageable.
They were officers now.
So Riley only gave a small nod, and T’Varen returned it with the same understated precision.
It was enough.
Riley continued onto the Bridge, angling toward an auxiliary Security console. As she crossed, she took in the room the way Lieutenant Commander Torres had taught her to do years ago: not as scenery, but as a living tactical diagram.
Captain Braggins in the center chair. Chertstone at Helm. T’Lari at Tactical, weapons restrained but ready. Qab’ataar at Science, with the probe telemetry now his problem. The Lowry somewhere nearby in the dark, supposedly matching their posture. The Yeager herself drifting quiet, exterior lights cut, viewports darkened, most of her systems reduced to the minimum needed to keep her alive and useful.
Which means everything matters if someone does notice.
Riley reached the Security console and signed in, setting the PADD beside the interface. The display came alive at low illumination, and she immediately reduced it another step.
No point preaching discipline while glowing like a beacon.
Internal readiness reports began stacking across the screen. Main Security had already shifted to a quiet alert posture. Non-essential corridor movement had been curtailed. Turbolift use had been restricted to command, medical, engineering, and emergency response. Armory access remained locked by authorization tier. Security teams were not moving unless ordered, which was exactly how it should be while the ship was trying to look like debris.
Good.
Riley opened a secure direct text channel to Lieutenant d’Tor’an rather than pushing a general message through the department net. By now, she had learned that the Chief of Security preferred information close to the source, preferably before it had been sanded smooth by three layers of summary.
Riley respected that.
Mostly because it made sense.
[Wright to d’Tor’an. Bridge is in modified Grey Mode. Warp core remains at minimal output by Captain’s order. Weapons are on standby. Lowry has been instructed to match our posture. Non-essential movement is restricted. I am taking auxiliary Security monitoring from the Bridge.]
She paused, studying the internal systems display as it repopulated under reduced-power conditions.
Then she added the part d’Tor’an would actually want.
[Current internal focus: transporter activity, unauthorized compartment access, weapons-locker status, environmental pressure shifts, and command-system intrusion attempts. Response teams are holding position unless ordered or hostile action is confirmed.]
Riley reviewed the message once, checking it for anything unnecessary.
There was a difference between thorough and noisy.
She sent it.
The temptation was still there to add more. Riley liked preparation. She liked clear plans, redundant plans, and the kind of plans that survived first contact with stupidity. But overloading d’Tor’an with nervous detail would not make Security sharper. It would only make Riley feel better.
That was not the same thing.
She pulled up the internal sensor overlay and began stripping it down to what Grey Mode allowed and Security actually needed: unauthorized hatch access, transporter signatures, weapons locker activity, environmental pressure changes, unexpected computer access tied to command pathways, and movement patterns that did not match the reduced-crew posture of a ship pretending very hard to be uninteresting.
The Cardassians outside were the obvious threat.
Riley did not like obvious threats. They made people forget the other ones.
Her eyes flicked once toward the forward viewer, where there was nothing useful to see but darkness and reflected console light. Somewhere ahead, a probe was feeding information back through Science. Somewhere beyond that, Cardassian ships were enforcing a blockade around Starbase 214. Somewhere in the middle of it all were refugees, a destroyed civilian ship, and a comatose captain who might have known exactly why violence had found him.
Riley’s fingers paused above the console.
A civilian vessel had put itself between patrol craft and a refugee convoy.
That was not the part of the report people would talk about first. They would talk about borders, escalation, Hideki-class escorts, Starfleet response times, and whether this was going to turn into something larger and bloodier than anyone wanted to admit.
But Riley kept coming back to the simple shape of it.
Someone had been vulnerable.
Someone else had stepped in front of them.
That’s the job.
Torres would have said that. Maybe not in those exact words, but close enough.
Riley straightened slightly at the console.
Only once the passive internal watch was configured did she speak, keeping her voice low and directed toward the command area rather than the room at large.
“Captain, Security has internal quiet-alert measures in place. Non-essential movement is restricted, armory access is locked by authorization tier, and response teams are holding position.”
She touched one control, bringing the summarized status into a clean display.
“I’ve narrowed passive internal monitoring to transporter activity, unauthorized compartment access, environmental shifts, weapons-locker activity, and command-system intrusion attempts. If someone tries boarding or remote interference while we’re running quiet, we should have warning before it becomes a deck-by-deck problem.”
That was the professional version.
The less professional version sat behind her teeth: if anyone tried to come aboard this ship in the dark, they were going to regret it.
Riley kept that part to herself.
The Bridge was already tense enough without a young Security officer trying to sound fierce. She had spent too much of her life being underestimated because of her size to mistake volume for authority. Calm worked better. Precision worked better. Being ready worked best of all.
Another low breath moved through her.
The ship still felt too quiet. The air still felt too slow. The walls still felt closer than they were.
Riley placed both hands lightly on the edge of the console and focused on the data.
Breathe. Watch. Protect.
That was enough.
For now.
== Tag Bridge ==
Riley Wright stepped out with a Security PADD tucked against her side and stopped just long enough for the change to register. The lighting had dropped low. Consoles glowed with restrained output. The familiar background rhythm of a starship at full readiness had been pared down to something quieter, thinner, and deliberately uncomfortable.
Condition Grey.
Not the clean textbook version, either. Captain Braggins had kept the warp core at minimal output and Tactical had weapons on standby, which meant the Yeager was not truly asleep.
She was pretending.
That is somehow less comforting.
Life support had already been reduced. The air moved more slowly than Riley liked, and the subdued deck vibration made the Bridge feel smaller than it was. She knew the difference between a starship running dark and a damaged airlock. Her lungs did not care about the distinction as much as her brain did.
Not an airlock.
The thought came before she could stop it. Annoying. Automatic. Useful.
Riley took one measured breath, then another, and moved.
T’Varen was already crossing away from the Science station, apparently relieved now that Midshipman Qab’ataar had arrived to handle the probe telemetry. The Vulcan’s posture remained as composed as ever, but Riley knew her well enough to read the small details others missed: the precise economy of her steps, the faint narrowing of focus in someone who had completed one task but had not stopped analyzing the next six.
Their paths crossed near the turbolift.
For half a second, Riley’s expression softened.
“Leaving all the fun to the rest of us?” Riley asked quietly, her voice low enough not to disturb the tense calm of the Bridge.
T’Varen gave her the briefest look, one eyebrow shifting by a degree that would have been invisible to almost anyone else.
“The situation does not appear to qualify as fun,” T’Varen replied evenly.
Riley’s mouth twitched.
“Yeah. That sounds like your official assessment.”
There was more she could have said. A dozen things, probably. Are you all right? What did I miss? Tell me how bad this actually is. But the Bridge was not the Academy, and they were not cadets lingering after a drill while one of them vented and the other quietly rearranged the universe into something manageable.
They were officers now.
So Riley only gave a small nod, and T’Varen returned it with the same understated precision.
It was enough.
Riley continued onto the Bridge, angling toward an auxiliary Security console. As she crossed, she took in the room the way Lieutenant Commander Torres had taught her to do years ago: not as scenery, but as a living tactical diagram.
Captain Braggins in the center chair. Chertstone at Helm. T’Lari at Tactical, weapons restrained but ready. Qab’ataar at Science, with the probe telemetry now his problem. The Lowry somewhere nearby in the dark, supposedly matching their posture. The Yeager herself drifting quiet, exterior lights cut, viewports darkened, most of her systems reduced to the minimum needed to keep her alive and useful.
Which means everything matters if someone does notice.
Riley reached the Security console and signed in, setting the PADD beside the interface. The display came alive at low illumination, and she immediately reduced it another step.
No point preaching discipline while glowing like a beacon.
Internal readiness reports began stacking across the screen. Main Security had already shifted to a quiet alert posture. Non-essential corridor movement had been curtailed. Turbolift use had been restricted to command, medical, engineering, and emergency response. Armory access remained locked by authorization tier. Security teams were not moving unless ordered, which was exactly how it should be while the ship was trying to look like debris.
Good.
Riley opened a secure direct text channel to Lieutenant d’Tor’an rather than pushing a general message through the department net. By now, she had learned that the Chief of Security preferred information close to the source, preferably before it had been sanded smooth by three layers of summary.
Riley respected that.
Mostly because it made sense.
[Wright to d’Tor’an. Bridge is in modified Grey Mode. Warp core remains at minimal output by Captain’s order. Weapons are on standby. Lowry has been instructed to match our posture. Non-essential movement is restricted. I am taking auxiliary Security monitoring from the Bridge.]
She paused, studying the internal systems display as it repopulated under reduced-power conditions.
Then she added the part d’Tor’an would actually want.
[Current internal focus: transporter activity, unauthorized compartment access, weapons-locker status, environmental pressure shifts, and command-system intrusion attempts. Response teams are holding position unless ordered or hostile action is confirmed.]
Riley reviewed the message once, checking it for anything unnecessary.
There was a difference between thorough and noisy.
She sent it.
The temptation was still there to add more. Riley liked preparation. She liked clear plans, redundant plans, and the kind of plans that survived first contact with stupidity. But overloading d’Tor’an with nervous detail would not make Security sharper. It would only make Riley feel better.
That was not the same thing.
She pulled up the internal sensor overlay and began stripping it down to what Grey Mode allowed and Security actually needed: unauthorized hatch access, transporter signatures, weapons locker activity, environmental pressure changes, unexpected computer access tied to command pathways, and movement patterns that did not match the reduced-crew posture of a ship pretending very hard to be uninteresting.
The Cardassians outside were the obvious threat.
Riley did not like obvious threats. They made people forget the other ones.
Her eyes flicked once toward the forward viewer, where there was nothing useful to see but darkness and reflected console light. Somewhere ahead, a probe was feeding information back through Science. Somewhere beyond that, Cardassian ships were enforcing a blockade around Starbase 214. Somewhere in the middle of it all were refugees, a destroyed civilian ship, and a comatose captain who might have known exactly why violence had found him.
Riley’s fingers paused above the console.
A civilian vessel had put itself between patrol craft and a refugee convoy.
That was not the part of the report people would talk about first. They would talk about borders, escalation, Hideki-class escorts, Starfleet response times, and whether this was going to turn into something larger and bloodier than anyone wanted to admit.
But Riley kept coming back to the simple shape of it.
Someone had been vulnerable.
Someone else had stepped in front of them.
That’s the job.
Torres would have said that. Maybe not in those exact words, but close enough.
Riley straightened slightly at the console.
Only once the passive internal watch was configured did she speak, keeping her voice low and directed toward the command area rather than the room at large.
“Captain, Security has internal quiet-alert measures in place. Non-essential movement is restricted, armory access is locked by authorization tier, and response teams are holding position.”
She touched one control, bringing the summarized status into a clean display.
“I’ve narrowed passive internal monitoring to transporter activity, unauthorized compartment access, environmental shifts, weapons-locker activity, and command-system intrusion attempts. If someone tries boarding or remote interference while we’re running quiet, we should have warning before it becomes a deck-by-deck problem.”
That was the professional version.
The less professional version sat behind her teeth: if anyone tried to come aboard this ship in the dark, they were going to regret it.
Riley kept that part to herself.
The Bridge was already tense enough without a young Security officer trying to sound fierce. She had spent too much of her life being underestimated because of her size to mistake volume for authority. Calm worked better. Precision worked better. Being ready worked best of all.
Another low breath moved through her.
The ship still felt too quiet. The air still felt too slow. The walls still felt closer than they were.
Riley placed both hands lightly on the edge of the console and focused on the data.
Breathe. Watch. Protect.
That was enough.
For now.
== Tag Bridge ==