No updates. No orders. No recall. Nothing but the slow decay of distant signals and the low hum of systems running just shy of optimal. Omega-55 is quiet, too quiet — but not in the tactical sense. Not like an ambush or a jammed relay. It’s the kind of quiet that feels… abandoned. Forgotten. Like someone dropped us here and scratched our name off the roster.
We're parked on the hip of the Fretensis. Standard escort distance. I could lie and say it’s a position of trust, but we both know the truth. We’re the shield. If something comes in hot, we die first.
And that’s fine. That’s our job.
But what they don’t understand — what maybe no one up the chain ever did — is that ships like the Justicar don’t stay sharp on orders alone. They stay sharp because someone’s willing to hold the wheel when the map runs out. That’s me. I didn’t ask for that responsibility, but here it is, heavy on my back every time I walk the length of the bridge.
I’ve been doing those walks more often lately. Three times a shift, sometimes four. It’s not inspection. Not really. I don’t need to check the consoles — I know every damn system by memory. I walk because they need to see me walk. They need to know their commander hasn’t cracked.
Kael gives me that look sometimes — the one that asks if I’m pretending for them or for myself. Doesn’t matter. The crew’s keeping it together. That’s what counts.
Jace says discipline is holding. He’s not filing anything lately, which is strange in its own way. Maybe he’s handling problems directly. Maybe they’ve stopped reporting them. Hard to say. I trust him. Mostly.
Carrick, though... he's slipping. Keeps staring at comms like they owe him something. Like the void might cough up a new directive if he just stares hard enough. I don’t blame him. I’ve caught myself doing the same.
What gnaws at me isn’t fear. It’s not even doubt. It’s the silence. The stillness. The weight of this ship running flawless drills in a dead system, circling a crippled ship waiting on parts it won’t get. We hold formation. We cycle power. We scan, log, repeat.
It’s routine.
But if routine is all that’s left, then what are we really maintaining? Discipline for its own sake? Duty to a command structure that no longer exists?
No. We’re here for the crew. For the ones who stayed. For the ones who didn’t run when Vespucci fell and the walls came down. The Justicar is more than steel. She’s a choice. Our choice. And as long as she holds, so do we.
I don’t care if we never get new orders. We’ll keep running drills. We’ll keep the Fretensis covered. And if anything moves out there — anything at all — we’ll be ready.
