The Thunderchild moved through open space en route to the Ptolari Drift, her sleek hull cutting across the stars. Inside, life pulsed through her corridors: officers on rotation, systems humming, idle jokes traded near consoles, and tension drifting between conversations like ionized mist. On Beta shift, the ship felt more relaxed. Less command pressure, more humanity.

Ensign Caden Ellis, Captain Jast’s yeoman, carried out his rounds with silent efficiency. He walked the decks with purpose and a sense of urgency, a PADD always in hand, requesting and delivering approvals, updates, and requisitions between departments. He was known to most of the crew as the guy who made things happen without a fuss, but in truth, Caden was an observer. He saw things. Heard more. And never said a word.

Near the tactical office on Deck 14, he approached Commander Taryn Vok’s office with a sealed file for review. The Ktarian officer, all discipline and unspoken intensity, didn’t look up from his terminal as Caden handed off the report.

Down the hall, two Bynars, 1010 and 1101, stood at a diagnostic station. Their movements mirrored each other with eerie precision. As Caden passed by, they didn’t pause in their work but broke into quick, chirping binary:

“1010: 01101010.1101.010001?”

“1101: Confirmed. 00100110.001 11011100.00.1 Beta.”

“1010: Value discrepancy. 10111000010.1 subcode: 11001100.”

“1101: Resolved. 11011.110 00111.1001 001101.”

“1010: Authorizing.”

Caden held out the PADD. 1010 signed with a single tap, barely looking up. He moved on, wondering what piece of engineering was being upgraded by the Thunderchild’s new Bynar officers.

In Transporter Room 2, Ensign Thrixan buzzed with energy as he adjusted the controls. His iridescent Bzzit Khaht skin shimmered in the light, especially around the tips of his mandibles.

“I recalibrated the confinement beam last night,” he said proudly. “Smoother than a Deltan’s head now.”

Ensign Carter leaned on the bulkhead, grinning. “Last time you ‘smoothed’ anything, you beamed a sehlat from the science lab to the gymnasium.”

“It was contained!” Thrixan replied.

“It chewed through the punching bags,” Carter said with a laugh.

Thrixan signed Caden’s PADD with a hum. “Hey, at least it gave Lieutenant Zh’vhoral something to do.”

On Deck 8, the mess hall was busy with late lunch chatter. Lieutenant Nguyen sat at a table with junior officers, idly flipping cards from a tabletop game called Starship Tales.

“On the Tesla,” Ensign K’Ragh said, eyes wide with dramatic flair, “I outwitted a Romulan in a cargo bay standoff.”

Nguyen shook her head. “You were testing plant soil samples. The closest you got to action was mistaking fertilizer for wine.”

“Even so, I drank it like a warrior.” K’Ragh let out a booming laugh.

Nearby, Caden grabbed a quick raktajino, half-listening to the embellished banter. Tales like these stitched the crew together.

In Sickbay, Dr. Min-jae Park stood over a dimly lit biobed, reviewing neural scans with Counselor Vexa Phar beside him. Her Denobulan features were tight with concern. Their patient had been recovered from a small vessel destroyed during the Vaadwaur attack on Bynaus, he was the only survivor. They still hadn’t uncovered who he was.

“His vitals are steady,” Park said, gesturing to the display, “but there’s deep cortical disruption. Might be weeks before we get anything coherent from him.”

Phar folded her arms. “We can’t rush him. Memory fragments won’t help if the trauma overwhelms the rest.”

Park lowered his voice. “If we scanned him telepathically, there might be patterns we can backtrack.”

Phar didn’t respond. She simply stared at the monitor, jaw set.

Elsewhere, on Deck 9, a trio of science officers were mid-argument at an open console.

“I’m telling you,” said Lieutenant Arven, tapping rapidly, “the radiation pattern from the Free Haven scan isn’t consistent with Breen tech.”

“It’s not Orion either,” replied Ensign Folami. “Whatever was out there, it had a unique ion bleed signature.”

Lieutenant V’Ren, the Vulcan at the center of the console, simply raised a brow. “You are both mistaken. It is consistent with Romulan subspace displacement. Narrow-band. Low yield. Obsolete by three decades, but effective.”

“You’re saying the Romulans are involved?” Arven asked.

“I am saying someone wants us to think they are,” V’Ren replied.

On the bridge, Caden delivered a mission brief to Captain Rynar Jast, whose Trill spots framed a face taut with focus. Jast stood beside Lieutenant T’Rell, the Vulcan/Klingon hybrid operations officer, her clipped voice betraying a flicker of Klingon fire. Caden handed Captain Jast a PADD, catching their discussion about the Free Haven abductions.

“The warp trail’s too precise,” Jast said, signing the PADD, his eyes distant. “Breen privateers don’t leave tracks unless they’re baiting us.”

T’Rell nodded, her posture rigid but her voice edged with urgency. “The thoron trace from the Rolor Nebula points to Orion tech. If Clan Yelad’s involved, we’re chasing a Syndicate shadow.”

Jast’s jaw clenched, his voice low. “We need to know if this was a deal or a deeper alliance. Vrex’s intel suggests a drydock near Septimus.”

Caden stepped back as Lieutenant Sorel called Jast to the viewscreen, their words fading into the bridge’s hum. Is the trail a trap or a lead to the missing colonists? The question burns as Caden exits.

On Deck 6, a sudden hiss of a door sliding open was followed by a louder thump. Orion pilot Kren Varr, Alpha Wing Leader, stumbled into the corridor wearing nothing but his regulation briefs, clutching his boots in one hand. A bundle of clothes landed at his feet a second later.

“I said I was sorry!” he called, hurriedly pulling on his uniform pants.

A woman’s voice, muffled behind the door, shouted, “Then go apologize to Trella!”

Varr winced and looked down the hall, catching Caden’s curious glance. “Don’t ask. Just… long night.”

Caden offered a nonjudgmental nod and continued on, stifling a smirk.

Outside Holodeck 2, two MACOs stood at ease, waiting for their slot to open. One, Sergeant Pell, leaned closer to the other, a wide-eyed Private Koza.

“I swear to The Great Bird, Ibanez is out of her mind,” Pell muttered. “Today’s drills were worse than basic. We did two hours of combat in a zero-G chamber.”

“She made us recite section eleven of the security protocol manual while planking,” Koza added.

“We were upside-down. In EVA suits.”

“I didn’t know it was possible to sweat in vacuum-seal.”

Caden passed them, suppressing another grin. He could still hear Koza add, “She said, and I quote, ‘If the Breen don’t kill you, poor form will.'”

Back in Engineering, Lieutenant Commander Joris gave a status update, but the Captain of Engineering, Dr. Thall, wasn’t far away. The imposing Andorian loomed over an open panel, arms deep in conduits.

“If someone reroutes the EPS grid again without telling me,” Thall said calmly, “So help me, I will have them scrubbing the ram scoops with a dental brush for a month!”

“Understood, sir,” came the quick reply from a harried technician.

Caden handed off the last PADD of his round and turned toward the lift. As the doors closed, he leaned against the wall and let the quiet settle in.

The ship moved forward, steady and sure. Every hallway echoed with small moments that never made it into logs. The arguments, the laughter, the barely contained longing, the puzzle pieces of a greater mystery. Caden Ellis wasn’t always part of the action, but he bore witness to it, day by day. And somewhere between transporter mishaps and MACO complaints, between flirts and fights, the heartbeat of the Thunderchild carried on.