---
title: Code White
date: 2025-06-18
categories:
- Short Story
ratings: G
description: When a multiversal emergency strikes, Captain Abigail "Soot" Dale must deal with the consequences...as well as the ghosts of the past.
type: post
tags:
- Furry
- Science Fiction
---

> Attention! Station alert level has been set to white!
> 
> The station is suffering dangerously high levels of glimmer, there are several active psionic threats, or there is another significant epistemic emergency. Turn off all glimmer probers. Seek psionic insulation. Psychics should report to the Mantis for mindbreaking.

Abby clutched at the armrests of her seat as the evac shuttle, still docked to the station, jolted with an explosion. Crates slammed against the wall. Lockers in the med bay, not yet bolted securely, wobbled and rattled in place, threatening to tip over. Everyone jounced in their seats, glasses and hats — the protective headgear the Psionic Mantis had passed out — clattered to the floor.

She shrieked, though so did several others aboard. Many went scrambling for their insulated headgear, those most unfashionable of accessories that nonetheless protected one from the effects of high glimmer.

The captain, still standing outside the airlocks, was shouting down the hall, voice distorted by the very strangeness of the air. It *sounded* sparkly. It *looked* too loud. Something about everything was just slightly off, as though two universes slipped and juddered against each other, sending flares of one reality through the other.

"815!" the captain hollered from the hall. "No, don't treat them here, treat them in the shuttle med bay!"

> Attention! Station alert level has been set to white!
> 
> The station is suffering dangerously high levels of glimmer, there are several active psionic threats, or there is another significant epistemic emergency. Turn off all glimmer probers. Seek psionic insulation. Psychics should report to the Mantis for mindbreaking.

"Mama, what's–"

"Hush, baby," her mother said, tucking Abby as close as she could across the safe distance between the flight chairs. It was at least enough for her mother to hug around her head, damping out the sound with one of her paws. "Hush. It just means things are going to feel really weird for a bit."

From across the aisle, her father's face, always so calm, crinkled into a smile. "It's alright, little Soot. The boom was just the prober going, which means that things will level out."

She nodded, watching as the captain chased the last of the paramedics aboard and dashed up to the cockpit. A scant moment later, the airlocks bolted shut and the shuttle drifted away from the station, strangely placid.

Her father's explanation soothed her in a way her mother's reassurances didn't. They worked together to settle her nerves, each coming from two different angles.

"We're still leaving, though?"

He nodded. "They'll have the advanced crew come through and get everything all straightened up, not us everyday, ordinary chumps," he said, a chuckle rumbling beneath his words. "We couldn't get drainers done in time. Safest to just head out."

"Okay," she said, doing her best to embody that confidence. Settling back in her seat and tugging away from her mother's awkward embrace, Abby ran a paw through the unruly mop of white headfur — the only break in the otherwise all black coat she'd had since birth — to try and straighten it.

"Abigail?! Where's your hat? Where's the–"

> Attention! Station alert level has been set to—

There was no discontinuity.

That was the worst part, they would often think when they woke from yet another nightmare of that day a decade and a half ago, that awful glimmer-induced mind-swap. There was no discontinuity. There should have been some break in their — or her, as they thought of themself back then — perception of time, some blacking out, some fading to white that presaged the shift. If there was to be a singular event that had ripped her mind briefly from her body, split her identity in twain, it ought to have felt like *something.*

There had not even been a perceivable decrease in the unnerving tang of glimmer in the air.

She had been there, sitting in her flight chair, running her paw through her headfur, just this twelve-year-old mouse her dad always called 'little Soot', and then she was at the cockpit in a wildly different body, sitting in front of unfamiliar controls.

She/he/this body cried out in shock and agony, for the captain, whose body she now inhabited, had been well and truly singed by the explosion of the prober, to the point where the CMO, the kindly Dr. R, was caught in the act of slathering burn ointment on the side of her/his/this body's face. They both — these two bodies no longer inhabited by the correct minds — stared at each other in shock and horror.

"No no no–" Dr. R/not Dr. R was saying. The swap had hit them all, and she had no idea who it was that was speaking through Dr. R's mouth.

Abby/the captain/this body wailed and clutched at the console, mashing who knew which buttons in a panicked attempt to find something, *anything* solid and known, something to anchor herself/himself/this body to.

Alarms blared.

The shuttle slewed sideways, back in toward the station and away from the FTL jump point.

None of the rest of that otherwise prosaic afternoon ever made it into their dream, and certainly none of the agony of the evening and months after, the reconstructive surgeries on their muzzle, learning to walk again, learning to live as two.

It always ended in silence, a warm rush of air to the face that blended seamlessly into wakefulness.

The dream clung to Soot like the whispers of spiderwebs caught in fur, little streaks of memory that would tickle a whisker here, the rounded rim of an ear there. Days like these, more than most, the long-healed scar of their reconstructed muzzle would itch and the lisp that came with it — one they bore proudly — would be all the more pronounced.

They would make their way through the day with all the same practiced ease as ever, and yet just below the surface, simmering uncomfortably, would be the dream. There, just beneath their skin, would be–

"Captain on deck," the automated system announced as soon as their ID was recognized. The faint chime that followed, doubtless engineered to sound soothing and reassuring, always sounded inquisitive, as though the station was curious to hear their thoughts on the matter.

"Yes, yes," they muttered under their breath, though with their lisp, with the dream still dogging them, it came out a breathy *yeth, yeth.* "I'm here now."

The seats in the board room were, thankfully, all full already — or had been, as the rest of the command staff rose to their feet. Soot waved them off with a smile. "Sit, sit. Sorry I'm late. Couldn't decide between the five identical outfits they give me," they said breezily. They let their expression warm into a lopsided smile — though all smiles are lopsided when only half of your snout works. "That, or you're all here *early* because it's Dr. R's last shift on this rotation. Congratulations, my dear friend."

Applause around the room. Earnest applause, too, Soot was pleased to notice. Dr. R's reputation as one of the kindest, most competent CMOs in the sector was well-earned. The old man was positively beaming, the wrinkles on his face showing how truly, deeply he inhabited all his smiles.

There were short speeches from all of the rest of command, all veterans. The head of security praised his efficiency in getting the crew back up and moving when they were injured. The chief justice praised his commitment to treating *everyone,* not just the 'good ones' on board. The logistics officer jokingly grumbled about just how much of a stickler he was about turning on suit coordinates, which so often degraded during cryosleep.

When attention finally turned to Soot, they smiled and stood, paws clasped behind their back. "I've known Dr. R since I was a child, and must say that there are few who are as cool under pressure as he is. I certainly do my best, but...well."

Chuckles around the table. Soot knew they had a bit of a temper.

"I will not say 'thank you for your service to Nanotrasen' or anything so crassly capitalist, but I *will* say thank you for your service to *us.* We wouldn't be quite as whole as we are without you." They leaned forward and offered a paw to the old CMO to shake. "Earnestly, thank you, Doctor. Congrats on being kicked up the ladder to Central."

More applause. An extra few boxes of donuts were set out, as well as an extra carafe of coffee for some and sparkling juice for others — it would probably not be a great start to the shift if half of command was sick from caffeine poisoning.

After a few more minutes of amiable chatter and yet more handshakes, Soot called the rest of the meeting to order. It was simply a sharing of tasks for the day, a report on the status of the station as left by the previous shift (new windows outside evac indicating a meteor strike, grime and wrappers *everywhere* indicating a lack of a janitor, and so on). 

They always kept such brief. There was little need for more bureaucracy, when many of them would also be dealing with paperwork throughout the day. Only a few of them found such enjoyable.

It was all part of their ethos, when they worked a command role such as this. They were a leader in many ways, yes, but they were most of all a support. They were an older sibling to the whole of the crew. One of the kind ones. One who might offer corrections or gentle ribbing, yes, but one who wanted nothing more than to see them succeed. Soot was one who helped buoy them up, helping engi with the thermo-electric generator here, helping med with chems there.

Of all the departments, though, they paid the most attention to epistemics, the department that tracked the intersection of anomalous events with this world, the one in which they inhabited. Trauma will ever do as it does, and they had no desire to ever let happen again what had had happened to them so long ago. The accident that tore at their face and tore at their identity, leaving them ever in two, ever as Soot and Abby, command and kid. They'd credit it with being the driving motivation for who they were as Soot, and at the same time, they would credit it just as much for the childish immaturity that remained in their other self.

Not that they did not also love Abby. It was just that *now,* they were Soot. Soot had work to do. Soot was the one who got a job at Nanotrasen, had studied hard and passed all the qualifications, had wormed their way into the ranks of command. Soot was the one who had taken that childhood nickname their father had given them, pinned their father's courage and calmness to it, and adopted it as their own.

Abby had her own work to do, and that was work of comfort and processing.

Thankfully, today, epistemics was well-staffed, and by some very bright researchers at that. Of note, the mystagogue was someone Soot trusted would be nearly as paranoid about glimmer as they were.

They shook their head to clear away the cobwebs and lingering threads of last night's dream and instead smiled to the vulp looking eagerly for approval, a young critter looking quite proud of their TEG setup.

"Best burn I've seen in a while, actually," they said, spending a moment cherishing the look of elation that came across the tech's face.

"Thanks, cap!" they said brightly, bouncing on their toes — at least as best as one could in an atmos hardsuit. "Should keep us going through the whole shift."

"The volumetric pump is at...?"

"Five liters per second."

"Is that the lowest you could get it without the pump backing up?"

Their expression fell slightly. "Yeah. But I did the math, and it'll still last us."

Soot smiled reassuringly. "Then that's all I care about, if you're not worried," they said, resting a paw on the vulp's shoulder. "Just make sure you're not overfilling the hot-loop next time, and you'll have your senior engi certification on the spot."

They laughed and nodded. "Want me to pull any plasma out of the hot loop?"

They shook their head. "Like I said, I'm not worried if you aren't."

They nodded and, hearing the call for help in putting the anti-matter engine to sleep for the time being, dashed deeper into the department. The AME made a good initial source of energy and a necessary backup, but was too expensive, fuel-wise, to run the whole shift. Before long, the *thud...! thud...!* of the AME drifted to silence.

*"Cap, can you come to epi?"* the mystagogue whispered through command comms. *"It's not super urgent, but..."*

They frowned and toggled to command on their own mic and murmured, *"Heard,"* in return before smiling once more to the rest of the engineering team and walking station-north to epistemics.

As they walked, they pulled out their PDA and tapped to open the glimmer monitor.

389Ψ.

They stopped walking and started jogging. They worked to keep their expression level, doing their best to look merely busy and not panicked. After all, seeing a captain run through the halls wasn't *un*common...

"Status," they said briskly, bowing to the mystagogue, a frightfully competent young human named Cleo.

"Prober's off," she said breathlessly. "Found a mite wedged in behind it. I *hate* that sound."

They grimaced. "So do I. Did you grind it?"

She immediately brightened and nodded. "Oh, yeah, of course! I'll never turn down free ectoplasm. Did you know–"

"Cleo," they said, smiling faintly. They knew well the urge to infodump, and it took a certain type of mind to *want* to be a mystagogue. "Glimmer?"

"Oh. Right. Uh...yeah! It's been rising steadily. I called you out here to get some more direct input. I was going to stop research, and Whispers-to-Ghosts has already put the call out for psionics to stop."

"Good, yes. Stop research," they said as clearly as they could manage. Their lisp always seemed to get worse when stressed, and few things stressed them out more than high glimmer. They pulled out their PDA and pointed at the sharp rise on the graph showing glimmer levels. "At this rate, think you might go code white once it hits 450?"

She balked, frowning. "Usually I wait until 500. That's standard operating procedure, right?"

Soot straightened up and forced a smile. "Right. You're right," they said, taking a deep breath. "We'll stick with 500. If the call's already been put out on the side channel, hopefully people listen."

Cleo rolled her eyes. "Most, I think, but if you give people what's essentially anonymous telepathy, people are going to use it to be assholes. There's someone — and I think Whispers knows who — who has been mass-sleeping people near them just for funsies who doesn't want to stop."

They did their best to hold back a snarl. Within, they felt Abby stir. After all, the spike in glimmer that fateful day had been intentional, and one way to raise glimmer was through reckless use of psionics such as what had been colloquially dubbed 'mass sleep' — yet another of those powers, though certainly one more easily abused than the metapsionic pulse that the Psionic Mantes leaned on.

Catching some of the emotion in their face, Cleo stiffened, turning slightly away as though preparing to distance herself from an angry captain.

"Sorry, Cleo. Just not what the shift needed," they said, quickly reining in their expression to settle the most reassuring smile they could manage in place. "With Dr. R's last day, I was hoping for smooth sailing."

She relaxed once again. "Right. I'll be sorry to see him go." She leaned in a little closer, lowering her voice as she added, "Some days, I don't blame him."

"It does get a little wild here, huh?" They chuckled. "Wouldn't change it for anything."

"Captains, I swear..."

Soot laughed and shook their head, bowing to the mystagogue before padding out to continue on their rounds.

The next few hours really *were* smooth sailing. The Head of Security had already set up their officers in teams of two and the patrols were full of kind smiles and jovial greetings. Service quickly caught up, with the Head of Personnel doubling up on janitorial duties and one of the most efficient chefs they'd ever had the privilege of seeing work quickly filled the snack bar with nearly a hundred unparalleled mothmallows; simply divine. Engineering was so well staffed and so practiced with the Lighthouse-class station that they'd settled into frezon production in order to make a bit of extra money for logistics, who were no slouches, either. The internal finances of Nanotrasen and its resource-allocation algorithms veered way too far into hypercapitalism for their tastes, but they could certainly understand an efficient station.

They did their best to trust that epistemics would be run smoothly by Cleo, and forced themself to leave it be as best they could — at least to the point where they checked in no more or less frequently than the other departments.

And what a curious department epi was.

These two universes slip-sliding against each other did so differently across space. When, it turns out, you are a corporation spanning the larger part of an arm of the galaxy, that has real, knock-on effects, for what worked in one location may not in another. Worse, this changed over time, rendering some research moot even from one shift to the next. You learn less about how best to make a universal micro-reactor fusion cell and more about how to most efficiently *research* micro-reactor fusion cells.

Other sectors even named it the science department rather than epistemics. They named the lead the research director rather than mystagogue. They named the person in charge of investigating anomalous occurrences something far more plain that the 'Psionic Mantis'.

This sector, however, was something else. Here, the veil was far thinner. Here, whole religions sprung up around this very fact, to the point where many stations had a chaplain dedicated to such.

Here, glimmer was a problem.

That simple measurement of the friction between planes, a number that started at zero and yet which had no upper bound, became a way to tell just how bad things might get because of that friction. At 500Ψ, the point at which the station moved to code white, auditory hallucinations became possible, as did seeing spectres of the dead or ghosts of past selves. As glimmer climbed, so too did the effects. Those with psionics would succumb to headaches and nosebleeds, new psionics users would appear, and, as Soot had witnessed firsthand, wide-spread psionic chaos might ensue, such as the mass swapping of consciousnesses.

Several things might raise glimmer. Using psionics. Researching anomalies or artifacts. Glimmer mites and wisps, pests that they were. Even just running the glimmer prober, a device which conducted small-scale research within its shell, generating some of the knowledge required to accomplish tasks around the station, would raise raise it steadily.

Soot, ever conservative when it came to glimmer, instructed that the prober to be turned off at 300Ψ and that psionics users stop relying on their "powers" at 350Ψ except in case of an emergency. If it climbed higher, if they hit code white, a request for psionics users to voluntarily take mindbreaker toxin was put out. They would throw up, they would get dizzy and see the world in a wash of colors, but their psionics would disappear and glimmer would drop.

Those who refused, those who sought for whatever reason to cause a spike in glimmer, were subject to more drastic measures. After all, the Mantis carried a psi-breaker pistol and knife for a reason.

Some were careless, some were bad actors.

If Abby was at front, if she was not along for the ride simply as a visitor, she worked as a Psionic Mantis.

The job was not so drastic as the training made it sound. For the most part, she would just walk around and talk with people. She would listen to their stories. She would flit about from here to there. She would sit cross-legged in chairs and tell them about whatever her special interest was for the week.

Sure, she would also send out the occasional metapsionic pulse — one of the defining features of the job, and the deciding factor as to who would be Mantis for the shift — to find out who around her was a psionics user and take notes just in case, but mostly, she just...talked. She just existed as the station's sibling — though perhaps less an *older* sibling, as Soot thought of themself. She was still childish, still, in some weird way only twelve years old, despite this twenty-seven year old body she inhabited. She just mingled with her 'family' and helped how she could.

Soot didn't know the specifics; they weren't a doctor and so they didn't even pretend to. They could recite the proper nouns, of course — plurality, DID, what-have-you — but, to them, life was just...life, and a well-lived one.

All they knew was that sometimes they were Abby, that remembering things that happened while they were Abby was like reading a story, ill-conceived and more often than not a picture book, scant on the details. They imagined it must feel similar to Abby, too: perhaps remembering what happened to her as Soot was akin to remembering a dream.

Such thoughts were a comfort to them as they wandered from department to department, checking up on the staff, all the heads of each, from the mystagogue, Cleo, to the chief medical officer, Dr. R.

Gilbert Rosenthal was — had always been — the type of command staff that Soot looked up to. Efficient without being brusque. Calm under pressure without coming off as carefree. Friendly, kind, likable. His bedside manner was as suitable for children as it was for cantankerous heads of security, and his skills in management were so honed as to be all but invisible. The medical department under his eye just *worked.*

Soot could not but make sure they stopped by at least once an hour to check in. They helped as they could, of course (did they have a cleanbot? How were they on Pyrazine? A ChemVend restock already?), but they made sure to get at least a few words in with Dr. R each time, and each time, they realized yet more just how much they would miss their friend.

It was during one of these visits, while they were chatting with Dr. R, catching up on how his final day was going, that Soot let out a stifled cry and fell.

*Everyone* fell. All those who had been standing stumbled to the side and crumpled as though gravity had suddenly shifted. It had all the sudden panic and jolt to one's understanding of the world as going down a staircase in the dark and discovering there is one more step than one expected.

It was by its sudden decrease that Soot noticed the tang of high glimmer in the air. Perhaps the scent was merely a confabulation — Cleo had explained that she'd never heard of glimmer having a scent associated with it — but they'd seen no reason to set it aside. To them, it was sour and metallic. It made their whiskers bristle and their hackles raise, as they were now.

Sure enough, within moments, the ever-calm voice of the sophic grammateus whispered over comms, "Noöspheric discharge detected. Glimmer level has decreased by 43 to 428Ψ."

*No no no...* a little voice spoke within them. *No no no no...*

They pressed the voice gently but insistently down, offering what love they could to the one who spoke those words. *It's alright, it's okay. We have to work. It's alright, it's okay.*

"I have to go to epi," they said briskly, dusting off their uniform.

"Of course, Soot. Hey–" Dr. R reached out, snagged one of the mouse's paws before they could simply dash away, eyes searching their face. "You going to be okay?"

They nodded curtly, realized the lack of reassurance in the gesture, and smiled. They gave that hand a squeeze, pulled free, and jogged from med, heading down station-south toward epistemics.

"Captain!" Cleo called before they even reached the windoor. "Prober's off — has been for a few minutes now — and all research is stopped."

"Psionics?"

"Whispers-to-Ghosts is out now but...well..."

Soot frowned.

"Well, we haven't heard from it in a little bit. The parameds are doing a sweep for it now."

"Concerning," they mumbled. That the Mantis was missing during what appeared to be a spike in glimmer was not a positive sign.

*Soot what's–* Memories of Abby tugged at them. The part of them who still was Abby — not Captain Abigail "Soot" Dale, but Abby — started to press more insistently to the front. They were Soot now. They *had* to be Soot now. Abby could return to front after the shift.

*Shush, it'll be okay. It'll be alright,* they promised her, promised themself.

They toggled their comms to the med channel. "Med, status on Whispers-to-Ghosts?" they murmured, striving to pronounce the sibilants in the Mantis's name.

*"Crit in maints,"* came the breathless hiss of the voice of Drags-the-Bodies, one of the paramedics. *"Stable. Halfway to the bay."*

"Shit."

"What?"

They frowned over to the mystagogue. "Whispers was downed in maints. I'll keep you up to date on command comms." With another quick tap, they switched to the command channel and continued smoothly. "AI, move us to blue."

*"Understood,"* came the whispered reply.

> The station's alert status has been set to blue. There is an ongoing, known, or suspected security threat to the station or its crew, or another significant security emergency. Crewmembers are advised to follow commands issued by any relevant authority.

Cleo jumped at the sudden blaring announcement, as did the other members of the epistemics department, now all suddenly lit in the blue of the alert lights on the walls.

"Stay safe. Send your department out in pairs to hunt for mites or wisps."

Cleo nodded. "I think Lio has been left with telegnosis the last few shifts. I'll see if he can give the station a once-over while glimmer is low enough. Five minutes shouldn't push it too much higher."

Soot nodded. Letting the body drift into a trance while some form of inner sight wandered around the station, watching and listening, would be quite handy in hunting down more information. "Alright, have him coordinate with the AI."

She nodded and whirled around to dash back into the department.

Soot jogged back up toward medical. Dissociation nipped at their heels, but they gently pushed back. Abby would have her comfort, all the comfort she deserved. After work, after work...

Whispers-to-Ghosts was a slight lizard with gray-green scales and a perpetually faraway look in its eyes. This distant gaze didn't seem to be affected by the fact that a doctor was rapidly sealing up a wound on its shoulder with a cautery and hypospray, skilled hands unshaking.

"Whispers, are you okay?"

That gaze drifted over to some point just over their left shoulder. "Oh. Captain. Yes. This one is okay."

"Can you tell me what happened? What do you remember?"

A dreamy smile came over the lizard's features, the slouchy fez that was a symbol of its office only adding to the jaunty expression. "This one was walking the halls and sent out a pulse, and thought it felt something in the maints behind the dorms, so it went to look." There was a raspy, hissing laugh, which got the Mantis a frown from the doctor. "This one thinks it was stabbed."

Soot stood up straighter and pulled out their PDA, starting up a new note.

Sensing the expectancy in Soot's posture, Whispers-to-Ghosts continued. "It lost track of the pulse, but thought it heard mites, too, and so it walked toward west solars. Something spun it around and punched it in the chest — or so this one thought, until it started to get light-headed." Another laugh, another dirty look, though the doctor finished the final injection before stepping back. "This one passed out faster than expected. It's very thankful for Drags."

Drags-the-Bodies, another lizard, though colored in shocking blue and deep black, grinned toothily from where they stood nearby, folding up their roller bed again. "Just doing my job."

After they finished typing down the report and sending it off to security, Soot nodded, smiling up to the paramedic. "Yes. Thank you, Drags. You do your job well," they said.

They snapped a salute and trotted back to the front desk where the paramedics usually parked themselves.

Another psionics user aboard found by Whispers-to-Ghosts's searching. The sound of a glimmer mite, those mindless, fuchsia-shelled bugs that served as anchors between the noösphere and this reality. Violence in the maintenance tunnels.

*Violence!*

This shift was supposed to be smooth sailing.

*Soot, please–* whispered that ghost of their other self, a plaintive clutching at their paw that felt so real that they clenched their fist in an attempt to squeeze back. *I want to go home...*

"Shush, little one," they murmured, then waved off the curious glance from the Mantis. Speaking more loudly, they continued, "We're now on code blue, so please–"

The station-wide alert system gave a pleasant chime, followed by the far more frantic voice of Cleo. "This is your mystagogue. Station status is now blue-white. Glimmer is up at 550 and still rising. I need a salv to come help blow the prober in space, and I need engi on hand just in case. Any psionics who are willing, I have mindbreaker at the ready. I know it sucks, but hey, you'll see some pretty colors and get a bonus on your paycheck. I repeat, station status is now blue-white. Stay safe, just an hour left."

*I want to go home. I want to see mama.* A plea for a parent who had very nearly died in the same accident that had led to this splitting of self. A request for comfort.

The sensation of tugging, of pulling, of Abby's grasping paws only grew stronger. It was so *real,* and made all the more so for the Mantis staring at the space beside them from which they heard her quiet pleas.

The dreaminess of Abby struggling to take front interwove itself with the electric tingle of glimmer in the air. Glimmer being so high, perhaps it was no surprise that the ghosts of the past had begun to make themselves known.

*Evac soon,* they thought back, cooing soothing reassurances. *One more hour, just like Cleo said. Just hold on, Abby.*

It was times like these, when Abby most expressed that need to come to the front, to be the identity that drove the body, seeking for comfort, that Soot most often felt haunted. It was not wrong, not unpleasant, was even at times cherished, but it was still a haunting. It was an intimation from a ghost that the ghost become real and *they* become the ghost, that they trade places.

They just needed to make it to the end of the shift. Should their identity unlatch, should they disperse into the demanding presence of their younger self, they would have to step down from command, pass it off to another — Cleo would be the ideal choice for acting commanding officer, given the events behind the stress. Such was on their record and would not reflect on their career at all, and yet it was still, in its own way, a little humiliating for Soot.

Better, instead, to focus.

They slipped from the med bay and sought out the head of security instead. They needed the no-nonsense professionalism of Artie to keep them grounded and in the moment. They had worked countless shifts together, and few knew them better except perhaps Dr. R.

"Cap. Was just looking for you," Artie said briskly when Soot fell in step beside him. The ruddy vulpkanin cut an imposing figure at the best of times, especially given that he stood half a meter taller than Soot, but now he moved with a near mechanical grace with the subtle servos within his hardsuit helping to keep him going. "Come out to the dock with us."

"Is that where you're heading? I just wanted to make sure I stayed on top of what's happening. Just going along for firepower for the prober?"

Artie reached up with a paw to tap at a button on his collar, the helmet of his hardsuit slipping up over his head and sealing to his suit with a pneumatic hush. "No. I have a hunch. I grabbed a glimmer monitor from Cleo. It's rising too steadily to be from psionics, and too fast to be just from mites or wisps. Something else is going on."

Soot felt their gait falter beside the vulp. There was no announcement of a discharge, no break in the stride of any of the secoffs around them, but the sour scent of glimmer in the air was still strong. A strong paw helped nudge them back on course, at which they gave a tired smile of acknowledgment. "Glad someone's keeping an eye on it," they muttered.

Artie gave the barest hint of a nod, and they made the rest of the journey to the salvage dock in silence.

Soot had only ever seen a prober explosion once before in their life, and this one acted as confirmation of the strange beauty of the glimmer-fueled fire of it all. Whatever comprised the combination of materials, compressed gasses, and crystal matrices that made up the piece of hardware made for a bright flash and a scant second of electric blue flames tracing outward before what fuels there were were consumed.

*Soot...* Her voice was starting to sound far more real to them, far more present. She was starting to sound far closer to this world. They felt they could almost catch a glimpse of the ghost of her in their reflection in the glass of the airlock window.

No...she *was* there. If they looked just right, if the light shined just so, it was not their face that they saw in the gently smudged glass. It was hers. Same black coat, same unruly white mop of headfur, yes, but her eyes bore a pleading innocence that theirs lacked. The expression lacked all of the calm confidence that they strived for, even in moments of vulnerability like these. There was fear there, yes, and terror, but there was also so much of the wonder that had filled them all those years ago.

They tore their gaze back to the rapidly expanding cloud of debris from the blown prober.

*See, little one?* they reassured her, this other portion of themself living just beneath the surface. *There it goes. Safe and sound, out in space, no one hurt.*

A moment's straining. A vague pawing at the barrier of dissociation, the thin line that separated front from back, present from absent.

And then she subsided.

Realizing that they had been holding their breath, they let it out as carefully as possible, masking it by reaching for their PDA, quickly tapping open the glimmer tracker once more.

Glimmer had finally stopped rising, sitting at a solid 618Ψ.

618Ψ...

Still...

They frowned. Glimmer should have immediately started to drop. The prober was the steadiest source of glimmer aboard at the best of times, and now, with all research stopped and, hopefully, all psionics users holding off, it should have been the only one.

So why wasn't it falling?

Their radio sparked to life in the double-chirp of the command channel, and Cleo's anxious voice could be heard on the other end. *"Cap! Second prober! Old boxing ring, embedded in the wall. It's...it's half constructed. Someone's* building *it!"*

"What?!"

*"Lio called it out on the sideband, saw it on a telegnosis sweep, says he's trying to get back to his body."*

"Artie, got that?"

"Heard," came the immediate response beside them. A diminished chime announced a new message on security comms. "Blue team, green team, west maints, just west of dorms. Blue from north, green from south. Red team with me, via solars. Gold team on cap."

There was a chorus of 'heard's through sec comms.

"What? Why?" They frowned up to the HoS. "You don't think I'm in danger–"

Artie bent down, head beside Soot's, and murmured, "Helping *both* of you feel safe." His voice was barely audible through his hardsuit helmet, but all the same, the words rang in Soot's ears. They felt struck by them, a verbal slap to the cheek, and had to work to quell the flush of anger that was the first response. They knew Artie had only the best of intentions, and that he was indeed right, for they could feel that of Abby within them thankful for this act of kindness. Still, to them, it was difficult not to see this as a recognition of some shortcoming.

They loathed this about themself, this reaction. That they might in some way feel broken by Abby's presence went against so much of what they stood for. It went against their love of and devotion to this other part of themself.

They pushed it down forcefully, and allowed Abby's presence to fill the space left behind.

Perhaps seeing the flash of distress on their face, Artie rested his paw on their shoulder, giving it a squeeze. A tacit acknowledgment of the difficulty of it all. It was a touch that said, *I understand,* and *we both know it's for the best.* It was a gesture of care.

They nodded decisively, clapped their paw against Artie's forearm companionably, and about-faced to trot out of logistics. They tapped their way through comms channels, calling out, "Gold team, meet at epi. Engi, prepare for possible damage up near dorms and northwest solars. Parameds, stay alert."

They were twenty paces away from the door to epistemics when two announcements rang out at once.

*"Noöspheric discharge detected. Glimmer level has decreased by 22 to 603Ψ,"* the sophic grammateus stated calmly.

> An automatic crew shift change shuttle has been sent. ETA: ten minutes. Please return all station property to its proper locations, clean your workstations, and proceed to the southern shuttle airlocks.

The shuttle announcement was obscured by the waterfall rush of blood in their ears as they crumpled to the floor with the discharge — as did everyone else in the hall. The general comms channel erupted in a mix of ragged cheers and complaints of dropped tools.

*Soot!*

They shied away from two pairs of hands clad all in black hardsuit reaching out to them. Abby was there with them, now, imagined fists balled up, beating against the last barrier between her taking front and their control on the situation. They could almost see her, almost see this ghost of who they used to be, this person they still at times were. They could almost see this twelve-year-old self with her unruly mop of hair and tears streaming down her cheeks.

*Just...ten more minutes. We just need to get on the shuttle, little one...*

She sobbed within them, and, with a start, they realized that they, too, were crying.

They finally allowed the helping hands of the two gold team officers to lift them to their feet. Brushing their uniform straight with trembling, tingling paws, they gasped a thank-you and dashed the last few meters to epistemics.

"Cleo!"

"Here, cap!" she hollered from where the last artifact was being locked away. "I– oh, shit, you okay?"

They barked a hoarse laugh and shook their head. "No, but we're on our way home, right? Any further news on the prober? Do you have what you need to build a glimmer drain?"

"Uh...alright," she said, clearly still wrong-footed by whatever expression they wore on their face. "Right. No news. No one was nearby. Just a mostly-finished prober masked in a hole in the wall, and we're still short on ecto for the drain. Hey, are you *sure* you're okay?"

They swayed on their feet for a moment, then beckoned Cleo and their security detail to follow them. They bumped their hip against Cleo's secure office door, opening it with their override access, and ushered everyone inside. "I'll be speaking this on command comms, understood?"

The two secoffs and the mystagogue both nodded. Cleo's eyes were wide.

They tapped their radio and spoke. "Foreseeing a psychological shift and as stated in my medical records, I preemptively name Cleo Lord, mystagogue, acting commanding officer. Objections?"

Cleo stood, agog, as the leadership team called in their assent. Head of security. Head of personnel. Chief medical officer. Logistics officer. The chief engineer, a skittish rodentia who was always quick with a quip, just called out, *"Better you'n me, boss!"*

"Cleo?"

She stared a moment longer, then coughed and shuffled her feet on the steel tile of her office. "Well...alright. I'll uh...just let everyone do what they need to keep the shift running as smooth as possible."

*"You're already better than most captains,"* chimed in the LO.

Soot nodded. "That's what a good captain does. Trust the other heads."

Cleo gave a shaky smile, bowed, and then dashed out of the office, Soot and the two secoffs following with at a slower pace.

Eight minutes left.

They trudged all the way station-north to the bridge.

Seven minutes.

Just a moment of quiet back in their bedroom to grab the medal of crewmanship that Cleo most certainly deserved.

Six.

They were running against the clock, here, and still there was no word on this second prober and just who it was that had been building it.

With five minutes to go until the shuttle arrived, there was a sudden flurry of activity over security comms as the other two security teams executed their search.

*"West maints! Running south!"*

*"Heard!"*

*"Botanist has a shiv."*

*"Watch it! Watch it! Motherfucker–"*

*"Suspect down."*

A glance in the mirror, and they saw just to the left, half super imposed over themself, Abby, straining to be free. They were in two: Abby felt terror; Soot felt only relief that a resolution was in sight.

"Status?" they whispered hoarsely.

*"Botanist ran into do something to the prober,"* came Artie's ever-calm voice. *"He ran right into green team, dropped a welder, and drew a shiv."*

One of the other officers chimed in, the muted sound of hollering in the background. *"He went down with a stun-flash. We have him cuffed. What should we do with the prober? There's a bunch of those blue crystal matrices laying around it now."*

Keeping their eyes locked on Abby's, they spoke mechanically. "Just don't touch anything. I'll let CentComm know that they need to send in a crew to take care of it."

*"Heard."*

*"Shuttle in four,"* Artie said. *"We'll bring him to Central and they can deal with him there. AI, drop from blue to white."*

> Attention! Station alert level has been set to white!
> 
> The station is suffering dangerously high levels of glimmer, there are several active psionic threats, or there is another significant epistemic emergency. Turn off all glimmer probers. Seek psionic insulation. Psionics users should report to the epistemics department for processing.

Abby wailed within them.

"Good," Soot said, swaying on their feet. "See you there."

*We're safe, little one,* they promised that glimpse of Abby in the mirror. *We're going home.* 

The reply was small, muted, obscured by tears. *Okay.*

Shutting their locker, they straightened their uniform and forced themself to stand tall, all but marching to regroup with their security detail.

At the shuttle docks, they stood at ease, doing their best to smile at the crew streaming on board, offering only the most noncommittal of replies when someone asked a question, directing everyone to their seats. The botanist, a young moth who looked to be barely old enough to work a job at Nanotrasen, glowered at them as they were guided into the shuttle, back to the security section in the aft.

Following the security officers leading the cuffed moth aboard, Artie stopped in front of Soot and bowed. "Captain."

They raised a dull gaze to the vulp.

Artie's gaze searched their face curiously for a moment, his expression softening. "I'm sorry for all the stress today. It should've been easier."

"You took care of it as best you could, and for that I'm thankful."

"We did our best." He looked back toward the shuttle brig as he spoke. "Mr. Winters over there has stated that his goal was to spike glimmer high enough to destroy epi with the prober blast. When the call was put out to destroy the prober, he began constructing a second one."

Soot frowned. "Why, though?"

"He...declined to elaborate."

They snorted.

Artie chuckled. "If I had to guess, there's been news of a new cult worming its way into the sector. NT's coming up with some protocols to deal with them when they start causing problems and developing tools for MGs and chaplains." He nodded back toward the brig. "If Mr. Winters is a part of this cult, at least there's *some* connection to wanting to blow up epistemics."

Soot shook their head. They could feel Abby's paws clutching at their arm, tugging insistently. "It's always something new."

The vulp smiled, rested his paw on Soot's shoulder, and gave a gentle squeeze. "It's always something new," he said agreeably. "But we made it through. *You* made it through, and now you get to step back and take care of yourselves. It's on the justice department, now."

At last, a smile touched their face. *This* is why they trusted the department heads, why they thought of themself as support rather than command. Grasping yet tighter on control of the situation would only let it slip further from their grasp. 

"Thanks, Artie."

He nodded, patted the mouse's shoulder once, and stepped inside the shuttle to leave Soot to wait.

They waited as the last of the crew made their way down the hall.

They waited as Whispers-to-Ghosts smiled to them, then to a spot just beside them, and they felt Abby smile back.

They waited as best they could through it all.

They waited until everyone was on board. They waited until, at last, the only thing they could hear within the station was the omnipresent, barely perceptible white-noise of the atmospherics.

They waited, took one breath, two, and then let their shoulders slump. "Cleo," they murmured over the command channel. "You're up."

No more waiting. There was a moment of relaxation, a blurring of perception into some storybook understanding of reality as they mentally took a step back, letting all of that hard-won control carefully relax.

In a rush, they were subsumed into Abby.

She meekly stepped aboard the shuttle and edged her way past the crowded central seating area to hunt down a spot over by the shuttle's medbay. She wanted to be close to safety; it was here or security, but she wanted nothing to do with that moth, the one who had sought only to spike glimmer, to wreak such havoc as had split her in twain fifteen years back.

"Soot?"

She looked dully up to meet Dr. R's concerned gaze.

"...Abby?"

She nodded, still silent.

"Can I sit by you?"

Another nod.

He settled down into the flight chair with a sigh, strapping himself in with practiced ease. "You doing okay, kiddo?"

"Not really, no."

"Yeah, I imagine not." He reached over and patted her on the knee. "Do you remember much of what happened today?"

"Code White. Soot was dealing with all of that. Something about...another prober, I guess?"

Dr. R nodded. They watched as the airlock doors bolted shut, thinking.

Abby did her best to smile. "You're really leaving, though?"

"Yeah," he said, chuckling. "An appointment at Central Command is hard to turn down. I'm getting too old for this type of thing. I'm tired of dealing with stab wounds, and glimmer's for the youth."

At this she really did smile. "I don't think it's for anyone but the scientists, honestly."

He chuckled, and they both took a moment to brace themselves as the shift-end shuttle made the translation to FTL — the brief sensation of one's feet dropping out from beneath them was enough to call all conversation to a halt for a few moments.

"I'm sorry this happened on your last day," she said softly, once she was able.

He sighed and leaned his head back against the headrest of the flight chair. "Maybe it was just the station giving me one last send-off." Smiling sidelong down to her, he added, "And to be clear, I'm not too put out by it all. You probably had a rougher time than I did. You and Soot both."

She averted her gaze, but nodded all the same.

"I'm proud of you. You know that, right?"

She turned her face further away, hiding yet more tears that she could feel threatening to fall.

"No one died that day, all those years ago, but everyone was just...so banged up." He rubbed his hand against the back of his neck, the faint scar that lingered there still. "I don't know that anyone came away with quite the same scars as you did, Abigail. Look at you two, though. Soot is regularly grabbing captain shifts, and you're working directly with glimmer. You're both still here."

She nodded, scrubbed the back of her paw over her eyes. "Thanks to Soot."

"Don't discount yourself, Abby."

She sniffled. "How do you mean?"

"Who do you think keeps Soot going?"

The station was long behind them by now, but the midpoint station they were heading to was still in the sector. Still beholden to all the winds and whims glimmer.

She was still done up in all of Soot's captain gear. She still had their PDA. She tugged it from her belt and tapped over to the glimmer monitor. 503Ψ. Still just barely enough for those ghosts of the past...

She looked up to the window across the narrow hall, searching the bare hint of a reflection that it offered.

Sure enough.

For a moment, just for a second, it was not her own tear-streaked face that looked back at her, but Soot's, with all their confidence, all their care.

She sat, then, in comfortable silence, and dreamed of home.
