The coil room was cold—always cold.
Cryocoolers breathed frost into the air, and the twelve rings glowed soft blue in standby, humming like distant bees. Lt. Amir al-Rashid worked alone, as he often did on gamma shift.
Tools in hand, diagnostic pad glowing, checking alignments that didn't need checking.
He told himself it was diligence. The truth was simpler: the quiet let him think.
Amir was thirty-one, born on Mars in New Damascus hab-block 17. His parents still lived there—father a hydroponics engineer who could coax tomatoes from red dust with the patience of a saint, mother a teacher who read poetry to her students between lessons on orbital mechanics, her voice warm even over comms. His sister Amina—nineteen, bright as a new star, studying medicine at the university annex, dreaming of opening a clinic in the lower domes where the air recyclers always smelled of rust. They were proud of him. First in the family to wear the Space Force uniform. First to serve on the black navy's flagship—the Discovery, the ship that bent the stars. He had been proud too.
Until the message.
It started small. A data packet slipped into his personal queue during resupply at Luna.
No sender. Just coordinates: New Damascus, hab-block 17, apartment 42-C. His parents' home.
A single line: "Duty has consequences." He deleted it.
Told himself it was spam. A prank from some bored tech on station. Pirates didn't have reach into Mars habs.
The Mecca Caliphate was a ghost story—old Earth faction that clung to power in the
Arabian enclaves and a few off-world outposts. Twice removed from his life: his grandmother's cousin had married into a minor caliphate family generations ago. A thread so thin it shouldn't hold weight. He laughed it off over coffee with Chief Petrov in the hangar the next day.
Petrov—Master Chief Daniel Petrov, Chief of the Deck—leaned against a tool cart, wiping grease from his hands.
They'd become friends over late shifts: Petrov the old-school Navy lifer who treated the hangar like his kingdom, Amir the quiet engineer who could fix anything with coils. "You look like you swallowed a wrench," Petrov said, passing him a mug. Amir forced a smile. "Just tired. Long shift."
Petrov grunted. "Aren't they all. You hear about McCain coming aboard? Replacing Razor."
Amir nodded. "Yeah. Tough slot to fill." Petrov's face darkened. "Henry was one of the good ones. Whole squadron's still raw."
Amir sipped the coffee—bitter, real. "They'll get through it." Petrov clapped him on the shoulder. "We all do. Stick around after shift—got a card game going. Marines versus engineers. You in?"
Amir almost said yes. Almost. But the message lingered. The second one came two days later.
A photo—taken from inside the apartment. His mother in the kitchen, back turned, stirring tea the way she always did—slow circles, humming an old song from Earth she'd never seen. Timestamp: yesterday. His stomach dropped. He sat in his quarters, staring at the image until the screen dimmed. Deepfake, he told himself.
Had to be.
He ran it through every filter he had access to. No artifacts.
Real.
That night he walked the hangar—he couldn't sleep with his mind spinning, making him sick with stress. Petrov was there, supervising a late maintenance cycle on Valkyrie's bird. "Couldn't sleep either?" Petrov asked. Amir shook his head. "Mind won't shut off." Petrov handed him a wrench. "Help me torque these mounts. Keeps the hands busy." They worked in silence for a while.
Petrov finally spoke. "You know, when I lost my first skipper... took me months to stop looking for him in the ready room." Amir tightened a bolt harder than needed. "Henry was... good people." "Yeah," Petrov said. "Best kind." Amir almost told him then.
Almost. The third message came the day before departure.
A video—thirty seconds.
Amina walking home from class, earbuds in, laughing at something on her pad.
Red dust swirling around her boots. A shadow following—close, deliberate.
The line: "Choose carefully, Lieutenant. The lanes are long. Accidents happen."
He watched it on loop until the screen burned his eyes. Family or duty. He thought of the squadron—faces he knew but wasn't close to.
Kaze's sharp laugh in the ready room.
Dragon's quiet strength during drills.
Valkyrie's steady command, the way she'd nod approval when he fixed a coil glitch fast.
Henry's dry humor, quoting old manuals with that British tone—gone forever. He thought of Petrov—friend, the closest thing he had to family on this ship. The card games, the late-night coffee, the easy trust. He thought of his mother's tea.
His sister's laugh. He told himself it was just a delay. Just enough to throw the jump off.
Marduk gets away and the family stays safe, no one dies.
He was wrong.
The guilt was a living thing—clawing at his chest, whispering traitor with every heartbeat. Fear was colder—ice in his veins, making his hands tremble when no one watched. He hated himself for believing the threat. Hated himself more for giving in.
Now, in the coil room, the jump clock ticked down.
T-minus eight minutes.
His hands moved—thinning interlocks, rerouting diagnostics.
Guilt twisted like a blade.
Fear colder than the cryocoolers.
He finished, he backed away.
Face pale, heart pounding, The rings glowed brighter.
The ship didn't know yet but the black always did.
Captain's Log, closing entry — Chapter 10.5 complete
The past catches up.
The coils wait.
The hunt continues.
James Nolan, Captain
DDSN-X1OO USS Discovery