Olivia stood there in the dim light of the briefing room, her hands steady on the edge of the table, but her eyes fixed on the screen that had just lit up with a name she hadn’t seen in years. It was her own, listed under survivors, right next to the four others marked deceased.

 

 

 The admiral’s voice echoed in her ears from a decade ago, declaring the mission a total loss. No one left to tell the tale, she reached out, touched the cold glass of the display, and for a split second, her finger lingered, tracing the outline of a call sign that should have been buried with the rest. The betrayal hit like a wave, not from the enemies they had faced back then, but from the men in uniforms who had written her off to cover their tracks.

Her shoulders tensed and she pulled her hand back, folding it into a fist at her side. The weight of that forgotten division pressing down harder than ever. A low-rank engineer like you thinks you deserve a call sign. Laughter rippled through the briefing room to them.

 The quiet woman in the gray jumpsuit was nothing more than a maintenance tech they barely remembered a signing. But the laughter snapped off the second the security scanner flagged her ID and displayed a warning no one had seen in 10 years. Ghost class signature detected. Admiral required. The admiral stormed in, ready to reprimand her until he saw the faded emblem etched into her card.

 The same emblem belonging to a unit he had personally declared killed in action. No survivors. His voice cracked as he asked, “State your call sign.” She finally looked up and answered ghost 5. And in that instant, every admiral in the room froze because the woman they had just mocked was the one ghost whose body had never been recovered.  Leora had walked into that ship inspection room earlier that day.

 Her toolbox in one hand, a clipboard in the other, dressed in her usual plain gray jumpsuit with no badges or flare, her hair tied back simply. No makeup to hide the faint lines from years of late nights tinkering with machines. The room was buzzing with officers in crisp uniforms, metals shining under the fluorescent lights. All of them gathered for what they called a routine check on the new vessel.

 Captain Aldrich Morell, a broad-shouldered man in his 40s with a perpetual smirk that screamed entitlement from years of commanding without question, spotted her first. He leaned against the control panel, arms crossed and let out a chuckle that drew eyes. A low-level civilian engineer, “You here to wipe down the machinery or something?” His words hung in the air, and a couple of junior officers nearby snickered, shifting their feet as if to distance themselves from her presence.

 

 Leora set her toolbox down with a soft clunk, unfolded her clipboard, and started jotting notes without a glance up. One of the officers, a young lieutenant with perfectly gelled hair and an air of insecurity masked by bravado, piped up next. Bet she’s better with a wrench than steering a shipstick to the basics. Honey. The room’s energy shifted.

 A few more laughs bubbling up, but Leora kept writing, her pen moving steadily across the page. To ensure the humiliation was thorough, a logistics coordinator named Hemsley approached her workspace, holding a large steaming mug of calf in one hand and a stack of greasy requisition forms in the other. He didn’t just place them on her table.

 He slapped the messy pile directly onto her open. Pristine schematics. the oil from the papers instantly soaking into her detailed drawings. “Since you’re just standing around looking pretty,” Hemsley sneered, taking a loud slurp of his drink. “Refile these by date, and don’t use the scanner. The optical reader is for officers only. Do it manually.

 I want every serial number handwritten and cross- referenced before I finish this cup.” It was busy work, a task designed solely to degrade her, forcing her to act as a secretary while the reactor she was there to inspect hum dangerously out of tune. Leora didn’t protest the misuse of her time.

 She simply moved her ruined schematics aside with a slow, deliberate hand, pulled a blank log book from her belt, and began transcribing the numbers with a speed and penmanship that was almost machine-like. her silence acting as a mirror to his petty incompetence. Without warning, Captain Morel pushed off the console and stroed toward her workstation, his boot catching the edge of her open toolbox with deliberate force, the metal container skidded across the graded floor, spilling precision instruments and microfuses into the gap beneath the main walkway. The clatter echoing violently in the sudden silence. Oops,” he said, his

voice dripping with exaggerated innocence while his eyes remained cold and mocking. “Looks like you can’t even keep your gear secured. If you can’t manage a simple box, how are we supposed to trust you with a starship’s engine core?” He kicked a stray wrench toward the abyss of the subdeck, watching it fall with a satisfied smirk.

 Leora didn’t gasp or scramble. She simply watched the tool disappear, then knelt to retrieve the few remaining items. her movements controlled, refusing to give him the reaction he desperately wanted to provoke. As she knelt to gather the scattered fuses, Lieutenant Corwin, the one with the gelled hair, moved to the environmental control panel and silently keyed in a command, his eyes darting between Leora and his snickering peers.

 The artificial gravity plating beneath Leora’s specific section of the floor suddenly surged to three times the standard weight. Slamming her knees hard against the metal grading with a sickening crunch. Leora didn’t cry out, though the air left her lungs in a sharp hiss.

 She simply planted her hands flat on the floor, veins bulging in her forearms as she fought the crushing invisible weight that sought to flatten her into the deck. Corwin laughed. A high nervous sound. Tapping the panel again. Heavy lifting is part of the job description. Isn’t it though? You look like you’re struggling just to stand up. Maybe we should lower the gravity, make it toddler safe.

 Leora locked her core, muscles screaming, and slowly forced herself to a standing position despite the 3Gs pinning her down. Her eyes never leaving Corwin’s face until he grew uncomfortable and reset the gravity, muttering about a calibration glitch. The physical assault on her dignity wasn’t enough for them. They needed to attack her intellect as well.

 While she was recalibrating her equilibrium, an arrogant communications officer named Kalin sauntered over, holding a complex decoding cipher pad. “Hey, wrench Turner,” he barked, tossing the device at her chest, forcing her to catch it or be hit. “Since you’re down there, try to unlock this data stream. It’s encrypted with a tier 4 algorithm.

 Probably too much math for someone who fixes toilets, but give it a shot. He turned to his buddies, grinning. 10 credits says she locks it out in 30 seconds. They laughed, expecting her to fumble. Leora looked at the scrolling code, recognized the outdated encryption. Instantly, it was a Ghost Division training exercise from year 1 and punched in the 14-digit bypass sequence in under 3 seconds without even sitting down.

 She tossed the unlocked chiming pad back to Calin, hitting him square in the chest before he could even raise his hands, leaving him stumbling back, mouth a gape as the access granted green light bathed his stunned face. Commander Selen Ward stepped forward then, her sharp features set in a fake nice smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

 The kind of woman who climbed ranks by blending strategy with subtle digs at anyone below her. She snatched the report from Leora’s hand, scanned it quickly, and tossed it back onto the table with a dismissive flick. Performance of Al. Nothing stand out. You sure you’re cleared for this level? Seline’s voice carried that status obsessed edge like she was measuring everyone’s worth by their rank pins.

Admiral Rowan Vance, the oldest in the room at 61, with gray hair cropped short and a face etched from decades of hard decisions, cleared his throat from the back. He was the type who held absolute power. His word law on any deck. But underneath lurked an arrogance born from secrets he kept buried deep. What’s your name again? I don’t recall approving anyone. This ordinary.

 His tone dripped with cruelty, implying she didn’t belong in their elite circle. Leora paused her notes for a beat, looked him square in the eye, and said calmly, “Lea, hail, and I’m here for the inspection. No more, no less. The admiral huffed, turning to the others as if she’d confirmed his point. To emphasize her point, Ward pulled a microfiber cloth from her pocket and dramatically wiped her fingers where she had touched Leora’s clipboard, acting as though the grease of the lower decks was a contagion. “It smells like burning oil

and cheap calf powder in here suddenly,” she remarked to a sickopantic aid, ensuring her voice carried perfectly to where Leora stood. The aid giggled, covering her mouth and whispered something that made the surrounding officers grin. Leora continued to calibrate the sensory array. Her hands moving with a speed that blurred, ignoring the degradation.

 She knew that the scent they mocked was the smell of hard work, something none of them had engaged in for years. But she kept her jaw locked tight, channeling the anger into the precision of her diagnostics, tightening a microbolt until the metal groaned in submission. Morell, not content with merely kicking her tools, decided to test her reflexes in a way that violated every safety protocol in the manual, he reached for a loose steam vent release valve near her head.

 A pipe labeled scalding hazard in bright red letters and jerked it open without a warning shout. A jet of superheated vapor hissed violently just inches from Leora’s face, hot enough to blister skin instantly. Most engineers would have flinched, fallen back, or screamed, giving the officers the show they wanted. Leora didn’t move her head. She simply raised her left hand, covered in a thermalresistant glove she had slipped on seconds before, and blocked the jetream while continuing to type on the keypad with her right hand. The steam hissed aggressively against her palm,

turning the glove black, but she finished her command sequence before calmly reaching up and cranking the valve shut. She turned to Morell, who looked disappointed that she wasn’t screaming in pain, and said flatly, “Valve pressure equalized. You might want to have maintenance check that leak.

” Captain, “The mockery didn’t stop there. It built like a storm gathering force. A cluster of sailors nearby, rough around the edges, but full of that pack mentality where they echoed the higherups to fit in. Join the fry.” One of them, a burly enson with tattoos peeking from his sleeves and an entitled grin, pointed at her jumpsuit.

 Look at that get up. Did you raid the janitor’s closet? No way you’re touching my controls dress like that. Laughter spread wider now, heads nodding in agreement. Another officer, a lieutenant commander with a snobby draw from old money roots, leaned in closer.

 Seriously, who let her in? She looks like she belongs in the engine room grease pit, not up here with the decision makers. Leora straightened up slowly, clipped her pen back to the clipboard, and asked quietly, “You done?” It wasn’t loud, but it cut through, making a few shift uncomfortably. Yet they pressed on, the room turning colder, the air thick with judgment.

 Captain Morell circled her now, his boots echoing on the metal floor. “You think you can just stand there and act like you matter? This is Navy territory. real stakes, not some backyard fix it job. Morel stopped pacing and grabbed a sensitive optical alignment tool from the console, a device Leora had spent 3 hours fine-tuning to within a micrometer of accuracy.

 He held it up to the light, figning inspection, and then deliberately ran his thumb across the delicate lens, smearing it with the oily residue from his earlier lunch. These lenses look foggy, he announced to the room, tossing the now ruined precision instrument back to her. It clattered against her chest before she caught it.

 If you can’t keep your optics clean, don’t expect us to trust your readings. Re-calibrate it from scratch. The room erupted in snickers as Leora stared at the smudged lens. It wasn’t just an insult. It was an erasure of her labor. A power play designed to keep her working while they stood around watching. She pulled a cloth from her pocket and began the arduous cleaning process again.

 Her silence heavier and more threatening than any shout could have been. They weren’t satisfied with just erasing her work. They wanted to erase her comfort, too. As Leora began the tedious process of cleaning the lens, the ship’s environmental officer, prompted by a sharp nod from Ward, quietly typed a command into his data pad.

 The ventilation fans directly above Leora’s station groaned and ground to a halt, while the heat exchangers for the nearby server banks were diverted to vent directly into her workspace. Within minutes, the temperature in her 5- ft radius spiked to over 45° C. Sweat began to bead on her forehead, stinging her eyes.

 But she didn’t wipe it away, knowing they were waiting for her to complain or ask for water. She worked in the stifling artificial desert, her breathing shallow and controlled while the officers stood 10 feet away in the cool airond conditioned breeze, sipping ice drinks and betting on how long it would take for the civilian delicate flower to faint from heat exhaustion.

 As Morell circled her, he reached out and flicked the collar of her jumpsuit, a gesture of supreme disrespect that bordered on physical assault. Standard issue synthetic blend. He sneered, examining the fabric as if it were garbage. Doesn’t breathe, doesn’t protect, just like the disposable labor that wears it.

 He leaned in close enough that she could smell the expensive cologne masking the staleness of his breath. You know, back at the academy, we used people like you for target practice simulation, the non-essential personnel, the ones who were designed to be sacrificed so the real heroes can finish the mission. Leora’s eyes flashed a microscopic crack in her armor, remembering exactly who had been sacrificed and who had claimed the glory. But she forced her breathing to remain even, her heart rate steady as a snipers.

 Even as the insults piled up, Leora didn’t flinch or raise her voice. She picked up a small tool from her box, examined a nearby panel, and began a quiet adjustment. Commander Ward crossed her arms, tilting her head with that insecure sharpness. Oh, please don’t pretend you’re focused. We all see right through it. You’re out of your depth.

 The admiral nodded approvingly, his voice booming. If you can’t handle the heat, maybe civilian life suits you better. Step aside. A wave of agreement murmurss rippled through. One sailor muttering loud enough for all to hear. Yeah, go back to whatever hole you crawled from. Leora tightened a screw with deliberate care, then set the tool down.

 Her movements precise and unhurried. She turned to face them fully for the first time, her gaze steady. The panels misaligned, fixed it. No apology, no defense, just fact. The room quieted for a moment, but then the laugh started again, harsher, as if her competence only fueled their disdain. Vance stepped into her personal space, his stature imposing, using his height to cast a literal shadow over her work.

 He picked up a delicate sensory relay she had just calibrated and juggled it carelessly in his hand. “You claim this is fixed?” he asked, then deliberately dropped it. The expensive component shattered on the deck plates. “Oops, faulty equipment. Log it as breakage due to engineer incompetence.” He ordered his scribe.

 The scribe, a nervous young man, hesitated for a second before meeting Vance’s glare and quickly typing the lie into the official log. Leora stared at the shattered pieces of the device she’d spent an hour tuning, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the side of the console, the injustice burning in her throat like acid.

 One of the junior techs, a young woman fresh from the academy, who clearly didn’t know the social hierarchy yet, stepped forward hesitantly. “Actually, Admiral,” I watched her calibrate that relay, she said, her voice trembling but audible. Her metrics were perfect. It fell because she didn’t finish. Morel cut across the room in two strides, looming over the young tech.

 “Are you questioning a superior officer’s assessment,” Enen? He barked, his face flushing red. “Because that sounds like insubordination, and insubordination gets a permanent mark on your record that ensures you never rise above sanitation duty.” The young woman shrank back, eyes wide with fear. Anne muttered an apology, retreating into the shadows. Leora watched the exchange, her eyes narrowing slightly. They weren’t just bullying her now.

 They were actively poisoning the next generation, teaching them that cowardice was safer than truth. The humiliation dragged on, each comment landing like a calculated blow. A group of mid-level officers huddled near the door, their fake nice facades cracking into open scorn. One of them, a status obsessed major with a watch that screamed wealth, sneered openly. Listen, girl, this isn’t a charity event.

 You don’t dress the part, you don’t play the part. He gestured at her plain shoes, scuffed from real work. Captain Morell jumped back in, his voice rising. Exactly. I’ve seen better presentation from recruits on day one. What makes you think you belong here? Leora reached into her pocket, pulled out a small diagnostic device, and plugged it into the console without asking. The screen flickered to life under her touch.

 Admiral Vance slammed his fist on the table. Who authorized that you’re overstepping, but she didn’t stop, her fingers tapping codes swiftly. A sailor nearby, insecure and eager to impress, added his jab. Bet she doesn’t even know half the protocols. probably faking it. Leora unplugged the device, glanced at the readout, and said evenly, “System stable now. You’re welcome.

” The words hung, silencing a few, but the cruelty surged back stronger. Morel grabbed her shoulder, his grip tight and bruising, spinning her around to face him. “When an admiral speaks, you freeze. Grease monkey.” He hissed, spittle flying. You disregarded a direct order to cease interaction with the console.

 That’s grounds for immediate detention. He signal to two burly security guards by the door. Escort this trash to the airlock corridor. Let her cool off where the oxygen is thin. The guards stepped forward, hands on their stun batons, their faces in passive masks of obedience.

 Leora shook Morel’s hand off with a sharp calculated twist of her torso, a move too disciplined for a civilian that made Morell stumble back a step. surprise flashing across his face before his anger redoubled. As the inspection wrapped up, the digs turned personal. The room’s atmosphere icy and unforgiving. Commander Ward circled back, her eyes narrowing. You know, silence doesn’t make you mysterious, it makes you forgettable. The entitled Enen from earlier laughed outright.

Forgetable try irrelevant. Admiral Vance, his face reening, pointed a finger. Pack your things. We don’t need amateurs slowing us down. Leora closed her toolbox with a click, shouldered it, and started for the door. But before she left, she paused, turned back, and asked one question that echoed.

 “You sure about that?” The room fell into an uneasy hush, their laughter dying as she walked out. Her steps measured, leaving them to stew in the sudden quiet. In the corridor, a lieutenant intentionally shoulder checked her hard enough to send her stumbling into the bulkhead. “Watch it,” he snapped, despite being the one who initiated the contact. “Naval personnel have right of way. Learn your place.

 Civilian, he didn’t even look back, just kept walking with his squad, laughing as they recounted how he showed her.” Leora adjusted the strap of her heavy toolbox, feeling the bruise already forming on her arm, and stared at the back of his head. She calculated the three different ways she could have incapacitated him before he even made contact.

 But instead, she exhaled slowly, cataloging his face for later and continued her walk to the lower decks. The sound of their laughter fading, but never truly leaving her ears. Just as she regained her balance, a group of offduty pilots emerged from a recreation lounge, spotting the commotion. Instead of passing by, one of them, a flight leader with a reputation for recklessness, decided to turn the hallway into an impromptu obstacle course. He kicked a bucket of cleaning solution that had been left by a drone, sending the slick, soapy liquid

cascading across the deck plates right in front of Leora’s path. Careful now, he mocked, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Deck’s slippery for people with cheap boots. don’t want you breaking a hip before you can file your retirement papers.

 The other pilots jered, waiting for her to slip and fall in the chemicals. Leora didn’t slow down. She engaged the magnetic soles of her boots with a subtle heel click standard ghost gear disguised as civilian wear and walked perfectly upright across the slick surface without faltering.

 The metallic clack clack clack of her steps sounding like a countdown clock to their eventual demise. Further down the hall, she encountered a group of logistics officers supervising the loading of supplies. Seeing her approach, they didn’t just ignore her. They formed a physical wall across the narrow corridor, forcing her to stop. Maintenance takes the service ladder.

 One of them sneered, pointing to a rusty vertical hatch that hadn’t been opened in years, clearly meant for droids, not humans. This hallway is for essential crew only. The detour would add 20 minutes to her trek and force her to drag 50 lb of gear through a ventilation shaft. Leora looked at the wide empty space behind them, then at their smirking faces.

 Without a word, she turned and opened the rusted hatch, the metal screeching in protest, and climbed into the dark grimy shaft. As the hatch clanged shut above her, she heard them congratulating each other on keeping the trash out of the clean zones. Midway through the cramped spiderinfested shaft, the lights abruptly cut out, plunging her into absolute, suffocating darkness. It wasn’t a malfunction.

 She could hear the distinct beep of a remote override from the hallway above, followed by muffled laughter vibrating through the metal. “Let’s see how she likes the scenic route in the dark,” someone shouted. Most people would have panicked, screaming for help in the claustrophobic blackness. But Leora didn’t make a sound.

 She closed her eyes, letting her other senses expand, counting the rivets by touch and listening to the hum of the ship’s distant heartbeat. She navigated the treacherous vertical climb in pitch blackness with the grace of a predator in its den, refusing to give them the satisfaction of hearing a single cry of fear, transforming their prank into an unauthorized training session for her rusty night op skills.

 Later that afternoon during a break in the messaul, Leora sat alone at a corner table sipping black coffee from a chipped mug, her eyes scanning an old schematic print out. The place was filled with crew members unwinding, but whispers followed her. She folded the paper carefully, tucking it away.

 When a memory surfaced through the clatter of trays, a similar hall years back, where her team had gathered before a mission, laughter real and bonds unbreakable. The Ghost Division emblem on their sleeves, now faded in her mind like the one on her hidden card.

 She set the mug down harder than intended, the sound drawing a few glances, but she picked up her notes again, pushing forward. A group of junior pilots sat two tables away, their voices raised intentionally so she couldn’t miss a word. I heard she used to work on garbage scows. One of them lied, tearing open a ration pack. That’s why she doesn’t talk.

 Probably forgot how to speak human after years with the rats. Another chimed in, flicking a piece of synthetic bread at her, which landed squarely on her schematic. Hey, Earth the trash heap. Do you even know what a fork is, or do you need a manual for that, too? Leora calmly brushed the bread off the paper, not acknowledging them, which only infuriated them more.

 The leader of the group stood up, walking over to accidentally bump her table, sending black coffee sloshing over the edge, narrowly missing her lap, but soaking the bench beside her. Clean that up, the pilot ordered, standing over her with hands on his hips. You made a mess. That’s what you’re here for. Write janitorial duties.

 He motioned to the puddle of coffee dripping onto the floor. When Leora didn’t move, he slammed his hand down on the table, rattling the cutlery. I said, “Clean it up, or do I need to call the captain and tell him you’re defacing naval property?” The injustice was suffocating. He had spilled it, yet he demanded her servitude.

 Leora looked at the puddle, then up at him, her eyes devoid of fear, which unsettled him. She took a napkin, wiped the schematic dry, and stood up, leaving the mess on the floor and the pilot sputtering in confused rage behind her before she could reach the exit. A supply officer blocked her path, holding a data pad with a smirk. Hold on.

 Hail system says you haven’t been issued a chow pass for this shift. He tapped the screen, deleting her entry in front of her eyes. since you stole fleet resources. He pointed to the half empty coffee mug she had left behind. I’m docking your pay for the week and you’re banned from the messaul for 48 hours. Civilian contractors don’t get to eat unless they earn it.

 The petty cruelty was breathtaking, starving her for a laugh. The pilots cheered, banging their fists on the table. Leora felt the hunger gnawing at her stomach, the result of skipping breakfast to prep for the inspection, but she swallowed the bile, nodded once as if accepting the terms, and walked out, knowing she would be working the next 12 hours on an empty stomach.

 Back in the control room for the next phase, Leora approached a malfunctioning panel that four other engineers had poked at without success. She knelt down, opened it up, and started rewiring with quiet efficiency. Captain Morurell stormed over, his face twisted in irritation. Who gave you permission to touch the systems? His shout drew the group back together. Leora finished the connection, stood up, and wiped her hands on her jumpsuit.

 The auxiliary circuit in the ghost class layer had a hidden fault. It’s corrected. The words dropped like stones. Admiral Vance, who had been reviewing charts nearby, jerked his head up. Ghost class. That’s classified material. How do you know about it? His voice held an edge of something deeper than anger, fear, perhaps.

 Leora met his gaze. I’ve worked with it before. No elaboration, just that. And she turned back to her toolbox. Vance signaled to his security chief, a brood of a man named Corg. Searcher now, Vance ordered, his voice trembling slightly. She could be carrying corporate espionage devices. No civilian knows that terminology without stealing it.

 Corg grabbed Leora’s arms, patting her down roughly, invasive and humiliating, right in front of the snickering crew. He upended her pockets, dumping her personal data pad and a small worn photo of a landscape onto the deck. Just junk, Admiral. Corg grunted, crushing the photo under his boot as he stepped back.

 Leora watched the image of her old home world, the one destroyed in the war, tear under the rubber soul, and a muscle in her jaw jumped. The only sign of the volcano erupting inside her. As Corg stepped back, he accidentally kicked her heavy toolbox, sending it skidding toward the open elevator shaft at the back of the bridge.

 The box teetered on the edge for a hearttoppping second before tipping over and plummeting into the darkness. A distant crash echoed seconds later. Whoops. Corg grunted, not even pretending to look sorry. That looked heavy. Guess you’re out of tools. Mechanic. Can’t fix a ship with your bare hands. Can you? The surrounding officers laughed. A cruel baying sound. That toolbox contained customcalibrated instruments Leora had built herself over 5 years irreplaceable gear.

 She stared at the empty shaft, her hands curling into fists so tight her nails drew blood from her palms. realizing they weren’t just trying to humiliate her. They were trying to completely disarm her ability to function. The room’s dynamic shifted subtly then, a murmur spreading as officers exchanged looks.

 Commander Selena Ward frowned, flipping through her tablet. Knowing terms doesn’t make you one of us, but her tone wavered just a touch. Captain Morell barked a laugh to cover the unease. She’s bluffing probably read it in some manual. Leora snapped her toolbox shut, or would have had it not been destroyed and stood tall.

 A junior officer hesitated before handing her a generic wrench from the ship’s supply, his hand lingering a second too long, as if questioning her authority. Suddenly, the ship’s main lights flickered and died, replaced by the ominous pulsing of red emergency strobes. A siren began to wail, the coolant containment breach alarm. Panic instantly seized the room. Stabilizers are failing. A tech screamed, “Core temp is critical. We’re going to melt down in 30 seconds.

” Morel froze, his face draining of color, shouting useless orders. “Routeout power. No, vent the drive.” The crew scrambled, tripping over each other, terrified. Leora didn’t run. She vaulted over the railing to the lower pit, sliding down the ladder rails without touching the rungs, landing in the sparking, steam-filled gloom of the core interface. Inside the reactor pit, the heat was unbearable.

 The air shimmering with radiation leakage. As Leora reached the manual override, the heavy blast doors above her began to grind shut. She looked up and saw Vance at the control panel, his finger pressing the seal button. He was sealing her inside the core to contain the blast, sacrificing her to save his own skin. Admiral, wait. A junior tech screamed. The engineer is still inside.

Vance ignored him, his face illuminated by the red emergency lights, a mask of cold self-preservation. Containment is the priority, he shouted over the sirens. Seal it. The doors slammed shut with a final tomblike thud, locking Leora in the dark with a melting reactor, leaving her to die alone while they watched on the monitors.

 As if sealing her in a tomb wasn’t enough, Vance’s hand hovered over a secondary command, the fire suppression system. Instead of flooding the chamber with coolant foam, he keyed in the sequence for oxygen depletion. We need to starve the reaction. He lied to the horrified crew, his voice steady with murderous intent. Vent the atmosphere in the core.

 The vents hissed open, not to give air, but to suck it out. Leora, already battling the heat, felt her lungs burn as the vacuum clawed at her breath. It was a calculated execution. He wasn’t just containing a meltdown. He was ensuring the only witness to his cowardice suffocated before the doors ever opened again. She dropped to her knees, vision blurring.

 But instead of clawing at her throat, she slowed her heart rate to a hibernation crawl, a forbidden ghost technique, buying herself the precious seconds she needed to reach the lever. Get out of there. You’ll kill us all. Vance screamed from the command deck, though now only through the intercom, shielding his eyes from a burst of steam on the screen. Security, drag her out.

 But the guards were too terrified of the radiation warning to move. Leora ignored the screaming admiral. She located the manual override lever, which was jammed tight with rust and neglect evidence of Morel’s poor command. Gritting her teeth, she braced her feet against the bulkhead and pulled with a strength that belied her frame. The metal shrieked, resisting, burning her palms.

 But she envisioned the faces of her fallen squad and pulled harder, roaring silently until the lever snapped down. The sirens cut off instantly. The lights hummed back to steady white. The physical cost of that override was immediate. The superheated metal of the lever had seared through her gloves and into the skin of her palms.

 As the blast doors hissed open, automatic protocols engaging now that the danger was passed, Leora climbed out of the pit, her hands trembling violently. Smoke rising from her scorched uniform. She fell to her knees on the cool deck, gasping for air. A medical droid hovered toward her, its scanners active. But Morell kicked it away. Lever. He ordered the machine.

 She damaged the manual override mechanism. That lever is bent. I want a damage assessment on the equipment before we waste med supplies on the vandal who broke it. The medical droid beeped to protest, but obeyed the command code, drifting away, leaving Leora to cradle her burned hands against her chest.

 The smell of her own singed skin mixing with the ozone of the ship. Leora struggled to her feet, swaying slightly, expecting perhaps a moment of relief, but the cruelty had only sharpened as she reached for a railing to steady herself. Commander Ward slapped a quarantine sticker onto Leora’s chest, the adhesive stinging her burned skin.

 Don’t touch the ship, Ward hissed, recoiling as if Leora were radioactive sludge. You’ve been exposed to unshielded core particles. You’re a biological hazard now. She turned to the guards. Don’t let her contaminate the clean zones. If she tries to sit down, stun her. We can’t have her filth rubbing off on the upholstery before the tribunal arrives.

 Leora stood isolated in the center of the room, shivering from shock, denied even the basic dignity of rest, forcing her to stand at attention while her body screamed in agony. She climbed back up the ladder, soot smearing her cheek, her hands raw and trembling from the exertion. The silence in the room was deafening. Morell stared at her, not with gratitude, but with pure, unadulterated loathing.

 “You reckless idiot!” he finally whispered, breaking the silence. You bypassed the safety protocols. You could be detonated the ship. He turned to Vance. She endangered the vessel to play hero. I want her up on charges of sabotage. Instead of a thank you for saving their lives, they were twisting heroism into a crime.

 The crew nodded, eager to support their captain rather than admit a civilian had saved them. During the fleet review meeting that evening, the officers assembled in a larger chamber, maps projected on walls. Discussions heated about upcoming maneuvers. Leora entered quietly, taking a seat at the edge. Commander Ward stood at the podium, her voice clipped. She might spout military jargon, but that doesn’t turn her into a soldier.

 Captain Morell addressed the whole team, his words booming. I won’t let some bargain basement engineer jeopardize the operation. Snickers erupted. An officer in the back row chimed in. She ought to stick to the boiler room. That’s her speed. Admiral Vance rose, his presence commanding silence. Present your military credentials or get out.

 The room erupted in chuckles. She probably doesn’t even have a call sign. Ward pulled up a holographic display of the personnel manifest, highlighting the empty space next to Leora’s name. “Look at this,” she mocked, gesturing to the blank data. No service number, no academy graduation date, no rank, just a blank slate.

 You are a ghost in the system, but not the kind that matters. You’re a clerical error that learned to hold a screwdriver. She tapped the screen, deleting Leora’s temporary access clearance in front of everyone. There, now you can’t even open the bathroom door without an escort. That’s the level of trust you deserve.

 The room roared with laughter, a cruel collective release of tension at her expense. Leora sat still, her fingers drumming lightly on the armrest, then stopped. The laughter faded as eyes turned to her. Admiral Vance pressed. “Well, your call sign.” The air grew thick, everyone leaning in. She waited a few seconds, letting the quiet stretch, then spoke. “Ghost five.

” Papers slipped from hands, clattering to the floor. Three officers dropped their notepads. Vance stepped back, his face paling. that it’s impossible. The reaction was immediate. Chaos bubbling up. Captain Morell yelled, “You’re lying. Ghost Division was wiped out.” Commander Ward pointed accusingly. “This is defamation of the service.” An officer threatened. “You could be arrested for impersonating a classified call sign.

” Vance tried to steady himself. “We’ll verify your background right now.” They escorted her out like a suspect, hands on her arms, the corridor echoing with their hurried steps as they dragged her through the hallway. Morel took the opportunity to shove her hard against the wall, pinning her there with his forearm against her throat.

 “I don’t know what game you’re playing,” he growled, his face inches from hers. “But stolen valor is a capital offense. I will personally see to it that you rot in a black sight prison for the rest of your miserable life.” He squeezed tighter, cutting off her air for a terrified second.

 You think claiming a dead hero’s name gives you power? It just paints a target on your back. Leora didn’t struggle. She stared into his eyes with a terrifying calmness, memorizing the capillary patterns in his eyes, waiting for the moment the table would turn. In the holding room, Leora stood by the window, staring at the stars outside the ship, her hand absently touching a small pendant under her jumpsuit, the last remnant from her old team.

 The door had slammed shut behind her, locks engaging, voices argued outside, muffled, but intense. Inside the holding cell, the temperature began to drop rapidly. Vance had ordered the environmental controls cut to minimal life support to soften her up. Frost began to form on the viewport. Leora rubbed her arms, her breath coming in visible puffs. It was a torture tactic, illegal under fleet law.

But Vance didn’t care about laws. He cared about burying the truth. She paced the small cell to keep her blood moving. Analyzing the locking mechanism of the door. It was a standard type 4 mag lock, formidable for a normal prisoner, but child’s play for a ghost operative. She didn’t break out, though. She needed them to bring her to the command center.

 She needed them to witness their own undoing. They brought her back to the command center for interrogation. Vance at the head of the table. This is a data glitch. Invalid. Morell snarled. I’ll revoke your access. Ward accused. You might be foreign intel. Officers moved to seize her decoder device. They marched her to an emergency interrogation bay. The lights harsh overhead.

 The interrogation chair was bolted to the floor, outfitted with neural restraints designed for violent criminals. Morel shoved Leora into it, strapping her wrist down so tightly the metal cuffs bit into the fresh burns on her palms. He leaned in, tightening the ratchet mechanism until she gasped, the pain blinding. Comfortable, he sneered. These are designed to suppress motor function. You can’t hack a console if you can’t move your fingers.

 He activated the neural dampeners, a hum filling the room that usually caused prisoners to vomit from disorientation. Leora closed her eyes, centering her breathing, using a Ghost Division technique to compartmentalize the pain, her face remaining impassive, while Morell waited in vain for her to beg for mercy.

 Vance threw a heavy file folder onto the table, the contents sliding out photos of a destroyed colony, charred bodies, and ruined ships. This is what happens when amateurs play soldier. He lied, pointing a shaking finger at the carnage. We covered up the Ghost Division because they were butchers, failures. They got everyone killed.

 He was rewriting history in real time, trying to gaslight her into believing her own squad was the villain. Admit you’re a fraud, and I’ll let you leave with a dishonorable discharge. Keep pushing this lie, and I pin this massacre on you. Leora looked at the photos. She recognized the battle. She remembered saving the refugees Vance had abandoned.

 The audacity of his lie made her blood run cold. In a final attempt to break her spirit, Vance pulled up a digital memorial wall on the main screen, a classified archive of her deceased teammates. But he didn’t just show their faces. He initiated a purge protocol.

 Since they don’t exist in the official records anyway, Vance said, his finger hovering over the delete key. There’s no harm in scrubbing their digital footprints completely. Letters to families, service medals, pension funds gone. He tapped the key and the files began to vanish one by one, erased from existence. See no legacy, just data dust. It was a violation of the soldiers most sacred trust to be remembered.

Leora watched the names of her brothers and sisters flicker out, her expression hardening into something not of this world. a quiet, terrifying resolve that signaled the end of her patience and the beginning of his nightmare. “Sign the confession,” Ward shrieked, slamming a data pad in front of Leora.

 “Sign it and admit you hacked the personnel database.” She grabbed Leora’s hand, trying to force a stylus into it. Leora kept her hand limp, refusing to grasp the pen. Ward dug her fingernails into Leora’s wrist, drawing blood. “You stubborn arrogance little.” Ward raised her hand to strike. But Leora caught her wrist midair.

 She didn’t squeeze, didn’t twist, just held it there with an iron grip that stopped Ward cold. “Don’t!” Leora whispered. The single word carried more threat than a thousand shouts. Ward yanked her hand back, rubbing her wrist, fear flickering in her eyes for the first time. Leora reached into her pocket, pulled out a encrypted key card, and slid it into the console. Spectre black access code.

 The system hummed to life. Files unfolding Ghost Division records, many altered by Vance himself. Her name appeared. Ghost05. Status unconfirmed. A security officer read aloud. This record was never deleted. Vance shouted. Shut it down. No one sees more.

 One of the tech officers, a woman who had laughed at Leora earlier, tried to cut the connection at the hardline. As she reached for the cable, a shock of static electricity arked from the console, throwing her back against the wall. System lockout in progress. The computer announced unauthorized tamper attempt detected. Counter measures active. The screen turned a deep. Blood red. The ship’s AI dormant and suppressed by Vance’s codes for years was waking up.

 It recognized the key card. It recognized the signature. It was protecting its true master. The officers backed away from the consoles as screens began to display real combat footage from 10 years ago. Footage that showed Vance ordering the retreat while Ghost Division held the line. Panic set in. Vance pacing.

 She’s seeking revenge, not fit to lead. Morell mocked. A chief engineer giving orders. An officer hurled a file at her. No one believes you. Ward stated coldly. You’re alone in this. They closed in, the pressure mounting. The ship’s automated defense grid suddenly swiveled. The internal ceiling turrets that were meant to repel borders locking onto the command crew.

 A laser dot appeared on Morell’s forehead, then Vance’s chest, then Ward’s throat. The AI spoke again, its voice chillingly calm. Hostile entities detected in command center. Threat level traitorous. Please stand down or be pacified. Morell froze, the color draining from his face as he realized the ship he claimed to command was now holding him hostage.

 He dropped his hand from his holster, shaking for the first time. The janitor wasn’t just in the room. She was the room. The ship was no longer a vessel. It was her weapon. Morel drew his sidearm, the safety clicking off with a distinct snap that silenced the room. I’m relieving you of command, civilian, he yelled, aiming the weapon at Leora’s chest. Step away from the console or I fire.

 The crew gasped. Drawing a weapon on the bridge was treason, but Morell was desperate. Leora didn’t flinch. She turned slowly to face the barrel of the gun. “You won’t fire,” she said, her voice steady. Because the biometrics on that gun are linked to the ship’s central core, and the core just recognized me as the ranking officer. Morel pulled the trigger. Click.

 The gun locked up. Refusing to fire on a superior officer. He stared at the weapon in horror, then at her. The ship didn’t just lock their weapons, it exposed their fears. The main biometric scanners on the wall, usually reserved for health checks, suddenly flared to life, projecting the physiological data of every officer in the room onto the main view screen. Giant red graphs showed Morell’s heart rate spiking to a terrified 160 beats per minute.

 While Ward’s cortisol levels were off the charts, in stark contrast, Leora’s biometrics appeared in cool, steady, blue, heart rate 60, adrenaline stable. The visual proof of their cowardice versus her composure was plastered 10 ft high for every junior crewman to see. It was the ultimate undressing, stripping away their uniforms and medals to reveal the panicked children beneath while the civilian stood as the only true soldier in the room. Leora pressed a hidden button on her device. Code echo null.

Screens flared, satellite links activating. Central display showed five ghost profiles, four deceased, one survivor. The AI voice in toned, “Welcome back, Ghost 5.” The ship switched to ghost priority mode. Vance collapsed to his knees, power slipping away. The entire bridge transformed. The standard blue naval lighting shifted to the Stark. High contrast amber combat lighting of the ghost division.

 Blast shields automatically descended over the viewports. The tactical map table in the center of the room expanded, projecting a holographic sphere of the entire sector with details Vance’s clearance had never revealed. Command override accepted. The computer boomed, its voice deeper, more authoritative.

 All non-host personnel are now classified as subordinates, awaiting orders. Ghost 5. The sheer scale of the power shift was physical. The ship itself had chosen her and rejected them. Vance scrambled for his command chair, desperate to assert authority by physically occupying the seat of power.

 But as he tried to sit, the chair’s haptic sensors rejected his biometric signature. The restraint snapped shut across the seat before he could sit down, and a shock of deterrent voltage sparked across the armrests. “Unauthorized user,” the chair announced loudly. Vance stumbled back, humiliated as Leora simply walked past him. She didn’t sit in the chair.

 She stood before the main viewport as the blast shields retracted and the chair swiveled to face her back, awaiting her command like a loyal dog. The symbolism crushed the last of Vance’s resistance. Even the furniture knew who the real admiral was. You can’t do this, Vance screamed, scrambling up from his knees, spit flying. I am an admiral of the fleet. I have 30 years of service. He lunged for the emergency comms, trying to call for external reinforcements.

 All ships, this is Admiral Vance. Mutiny in progress. Opened fire on my coordinates. The comm static crackled. And a voice replied, “Not the fleet.” But the automated high command tribunal system. Admiral Vance, your transmission is being recorded as evidence in active court marshal proceedings initiated by Ghost Protocol. Please hold.

 Vance stared at the receiver. The color draining from his face until he looked like a corpse. The door burst open. A man entered Cade Riven, 34 new commander of the rebuilt Ghost Division. Ghost 5 reinstated Supreme Command. The system confirmed. Maximum command authority to Leora Hail. Cade faced Vance. You hid the losses. Abandoned Ghost Division. Faked their deaths to save your position.

 Before the crew, Leora spoke. I’m not here for vengeance. I’m here to reclaim what’s stolen the truth. Kade didn’t come alone. Behind him walked four elite soldiers in stealth armor. Their faces obscured by polarized visors moving with the silent lethality of predators. They didn’t aim their weapons. They didn’t need to.

 Their mere presence turned the arrogant naval officers into trembling children. One of the soldiers walked up to the burly enson who had mocked Leora’s clothes, looked him up and down, and simply shook his head. The enen looked like he wanted to vomit. Cade walked up to Leora, stopped, and offered a sharp, crisp salute, a salute of deep respect that no admiral had ever received from him.

 Leora returned it, her form perfect, shedding the guise of the tired engineer in a heartbeat. Morell, still trying to salvage some dignity, stepped toward Cade, puffing out his chest. Commander, I demand you arrest this woman. She has compromised my ship. Kate didn’t even look at him. He simply walked through Morell’s personal space, his armored shoulder checking the captain hard enough to spin him around.

 “Your ship?” Kate asked, finally glancing back over his shoulder with boredom. “This vessel was built on Ghost Division specs. You’ve been flying a rental, and the landlord just came home.” He signaled to his team and two soldiers stepped forward, lifting Morell off his feet by his armpits as if he were an unruly toddler.

 His feet dangling uselessly as they carried him away from the command deck. The final dismantling of their power wasn’t physical, but financial and social. As Cade secured the room, Leora walked to the master finance console and tapped a single command. The main screen split into 12 windows showing the personal offshore bank accounts of Vance Morell.

Anne ward accounts filled with the embezzled funds from the ghost division burial budget. With a flick of her wrist, she initiated a transfer. Funds redirected. The AI chimed pleasantly. Recipient war orphan relief fund. Transaction complete. The officers watched in horror as their stolen millions, their retirement plans, their bribes, their safety nets drained to zero in seconds.

 They weren’t just arrested, they were bankrupted, their greed repurposed to heal the very people they had hurt. The scribe who had logged the false report about the broken sensor tried to slink away into the shadows, clutching his data pad to his chest. Leora didn’t turn around, but she spoke clearly. Correction to log entry 74 alpha. The scribe froze.

 Equipment failure was due to admiral mishandling, not engineer incompetence. Update the record. The scribe shaking so hard he almost dropped the pad. Stammerred. Yes. Yes, ma’am. Admiral. Ghost 5. He frantically typed the correction, sweating profusely. and add a note,” she continued, her voice cold steel. “Falsifying records is a court marshal offense.

 I’ll be reviewing your entire history by morning.” The scribe collapsed into his chair, weeping silently. Admiral Vance was arrested on the spot, handcuffs clicking as security led him away, his head bowed in defeat. The complicit officers faced suspension, their badges stripped in a quiet ceremony the next day, faces ashen as they packed their gear. Captain Morell and the mockers were reassigned to the lowest units. Their careers derailed.

Orders coming down like hammer blows. Whispers spread through the fleet. Stories of the silent engineer who turned out to be a legend. Leora walked the decks now with quiet authority. Crews saluting as she passed. Her jumpsuit still plain but her presence undeniable.

 Before Vance was fully dragged out, Leora signaled the guards to pause. She walked up to the trembling admiral, reached into her pocket, and pulled out the crumpled, torn photograph of her home world that Corg had stomped on earlier. She smoothed it out against his chest, tucking it neatly into his breast pocket, right over his pounding heart.

 You keep this, she said softly, her voice echoing in the silent bridge. It’ll give you something to look at in your cell. Remind you of the world you burn to buy those metals. Vance looked down at the photo, then up at her, tears of shame finally breaking through his arrogance as the realization of his total moral defeat crushed him.

 He slumped in the guard’s grip, a broken old man, dragged away, not as a martyr, but as a cautionary tale. The specifics of the punishment for Morell were particularly poetic. He wasn’t just fired. He was reassigned to waste reclamation on a deep space boy buoy, a solitary, smelly manual labor post with no subordinates to bully as he was escorted off the ship.

 Stripped of his rank insignia, he passed Leora in the corridor. He opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to beg or curse, but she didn’t even break stride. She looked through him as if he were made of glass, rendering him exactly what he had feared most irrelevant.

 The look on his face, the realization that he was nothing to her was a heavier blow than any physical strike. The lieutenant who had shoulder checked her in the hallway found himself reassigned to a detail that required him to manually scrub the exterior holes of ships in zero gravity with a magnetic brush. As Leora passed the viewport later that day, she saw him floating out there, struggling with the cumbersome gear, terrified of the void, he looked in and saw her watching.

 She raised a coffee mug, the same one she had been forbidden to use in a mock toast. He lowered his head, defeated, realizing that every scrub of the brush was a reminder of the arrogance that had put him there. The snobby major with the expensive watch was stripped of his commission for financial irregularities that the AI had conveniently found during the system purge.

 He stood on the docking bay, his luggage consisting of a single cardboard box, his expensive watch confiscated as evidence. He watched Leora aboard the ghost command shuttle, flanked by her elite team. He tried to muster a sneer, but all that came out was a sob. Leora didn’t look back. She had a division to rebuild and a galaxy to remind that ghosts never truly die. They just wait for the right moment to haunt the guilty.