Spent Assets

Posted on Thu 8th Jan, 2026 @ 6:10pm by Commodore H'tek

1,511 words; about a 8 minute read

Mission: From The Ashes
Location: SB109
Timeline: a few weeks back

-Start-

In the pitch black void of space, she slips silently from the confines of the vessel, leaving behind the bustling noise and artificial lights, armed with only the barest necessities crucial for her mission. She carries with her a single sealed case containing essential tools for survival and operation, a dermal transponder seamlessly embedded within her skin to respond to the ubiquitous Starfleet onboarding ping, and a simple metallic band that encircles her finger a ring heavier with meaning than its maltreatment suggests.

Though unadorned and utilitarian, the ring a modest band of brushed steel with a thin line of opalescent blue catching light like a breath of cold is cherished. To outsiders, it resembles the sort of keepsake a fledgling technician might wear, a sentimental token linking her to a distant beloved or perhaps an anchor from her past. Resting snugly on the third finger of her right hand, it leaves a faint impression against her knuckle, a constant reminder of her mission and the clandestine anchor she clings to for strength. She reassures herself that such reminders, tangible and persistent, are essential to her existence.

The shuttle, disembarking from the orbital station of Yron, jolts unpredictably in the atmosphere a testament to the turbulent transition from the void to planetary skies. She has conditioned herself for such trials, trained her instincts not to flinch in the face of unpredictable motion.

She tells herself, “Burn what you must so your shadow falls long upon the galaxy.” It is a catechism of the Second Sons, a byline for her lifes work.

As Starbase 109 looms majestically through the viewport, it evokes an intricate snowflake carved of shadow and luminescence. Its structure reflects the ongoing refits and new additions: scaffoldings embracing outer pylons, squadrons dancing through well orchestrated flight corridors, and a warp sleigh exposed like a fruit’s secrets within the sheltering arms of the drydock. She observes with a practiced eye, imagining the seamless fusion of alloys, the resonant symphony of power cycles, and the synchronized pulsation of countless lives converging into a single entity.

In official records, she is Salla Dhawan, a proficient med tech of the third class, recently reassigned following an incident at Starbase 63, which experienced a total bay decompression incident and had to be rebuilt. Her disguise is subtle: a new haircut grazing her jawline and modifications as subtle as a pressure triggered molar dispensing coagulants or a thumbprint freshly imprinted with beta minus access to the LCARS database. As her embedded transponder crafts a handshake with the welcoming Starbase systems, she feels the phantom engagement across her skin, confirming her identity in ways machines can understand.

The biofilters of the station comb through her, their spectral touch delving beyond surface imperfections, tasting for contraband or mismatched signs of life. Within her, flushers circulate, cloaking her biological signature beneath a shroud of benign markers. Predictably, the filters chime green, signaling an all clear.
In such expansive stations, secrets thrive not because of the watchfulness of others, but often due to the lack of it. Faces blur in the ebb and flow of traffic: engineers marked by mustard, operations teams draped in black, scientists distinguished in teal, and a doctor frivolously laughing. She expertly mirrors community norms, sharing smiles and projecting exhaustion as if each were an intentional disguise.

The infirmary, sprawling like an ornate web, comprises five wedge bays conjoined to a pristine triage gallery a place untouched by urgent crisis in recent times. She selects the quiet of night rotation, where fewer eyes scrutinize and the station's natural hum provides a soothing cover. Her supervisor, a patient Denobulan, entrusts her with tasks that quickly become second nature. Under her command, hyposprays are inventoried, med gel shipments catalogued, and micro repairs enacted with precision. She soothes the nerves of anxious cadets and becomes truly Salla, a role she masters with grace.

In the hushed alcove reserved for senior staff, the biometric scanner gleams like a monument to medical advancement, tenderly preserved yet maintaining functional elegance. She dutifully cleans it twice, allowing herself a moment of admiration before, on her third night, she deftly secures its calibrator. As the Admiral’s adjutant seeks a bio rhythm adaptation, she attaches the calibrator and, with practiced subtlety, absorbs the intimate metrics: cardiac signatures, enzyme baselines, and neural echoes. Stealthy and methodical, she repeats this procedure across the week, unobtrusively collecting data while engaging in light banter and laughter that defuses suspicion.

On the seventh night, as her duties draw to a close, mingling scents of citrus and sanitizing agents permeate the dim corridors. She waits in silence before retreating into the secluded embrace of an auxiliary supply closet a peculiar refuge equipped with a privacy toggle that is rarely used due to its occasional habit of trapping occupants. Engaging the panel, she seals herself within, the light subsiding to a dusky shade reminiscent of aged parchment.

In solitude, she raises her hand, feeling the resonant hum of the ring as it facilitates the transfer of amassed data into the hollow cavity within the band. The transmission process is coded, masked in the rhythm of a child’s lullaby slowed to gentle pulses.

The response is instantaneous, words burning beneath her skin: ACCESS CYPHER ACCEPTED. FUSION INTERMIX OVERRIDE: AUTH SIGMA 9. PROCEED.

She draws a breath, envisioning the distant coastline of Yron, a place she knows only through borrowed stories, with its glassy sands and bruised skies. Her exodus in waiting, a place to be left alone and spend her retirement in lined pine woods. The thought is fleeting; she dismisses it, focusing on the arterial corridors of the station ahead.

Within the hallowed confines of Engineering, the atmosphere resonates with a pristine blue white glow, akin to a sanctuary for those who worship technology. Her acquired intelligence, procured through the most personal and inadvertent means, guides her unerringly through this labyrinthine heart, knowledgeable of every valve and interlock, each cycling node of the intermix chamber.

She moves with purpose, possessing the tool of systemic disruption a slender shard of silver sheathed impeccably in nondescript foil to deflect unwanted scrutiny. The intermix controls, persuaded by her carefully laborious efforts, accept her presence with a reassuring chime. For a moment, she is struck by the ease of it all their trust effortlessly betrayed.

Guided by the machinery's rhythm, she cautiously positions the device onto the edge of the tray. With a gentle push, the tray merges into the plasma's seductive dance, the device stealthily whisked away into the depths, fulfilling its destined role. She pauses, senses attuned to the environment, assured as diagnostics run uninterrupted.

Her wrist vibrates once more a terse acknowledgment, immersed in finality: WELL DONE.

And then the world shifts.

A pressure burgeons beneath her nails, her jaw tightens involuntarily, and the station's luminance flickers in what could be tears. She understands, with profound clarity, the truth of her ring. It vibrates with warmth against her skin, its opalescent seam alight with betrayal. The training room discussions, about the folklore binding the Second Sons with tales of insidious gifts, surface unbidden. These weren't fables they scoffed the Sons would rather obliterate than reuse them.

The ring now serenades, in a voice singularly detectable to her, and she battles the urge to laugh or retch.
There is no escape. Ingenious in its lethality, the ring is a radiation scavenger keying into her unique transmission signature, orchestrating a cascade that signals the successful completion of her objective a destructive mercy masquerading as adornment. A promise camouflaged as affection.

Like a thunderous charge slowed into a stillness, the energy surges through her. Her breath hitches, falters, ceases. She recalls the warmth of the Denobulan's smile, the rookie cadet's unsteady grip, the countless shuttles gracing the station outside, perpetually journeying, constantly arriving.
Unseen and unacknowledged, she turns to light, then dissipates. The surroundings cradle the echo of her presence before the emptiness consumes and forgets.

Within the plasma's core, the device undergoes its transformative awakening. It clings, whispering to the reactor in an esoteric dialect, its appetite growing, an endeavor concealed within its stillness. A single strange particle duplicating, then again and again. In due course, it will articulate in a language of transmutation, compelling the station to heed. The humble device hums alongside the station's lifeblood, patient in its watch, murmuring into the silence as it prepares to converse once more, eager to be heard.

Elsewhere, duty rosters advance, oblivious to her final tale unwoven. Messages linger unanswered. And in a shadow cloaked crevice of the station's anatomy, a simple ring rolls to rest, forgotten… a solitary reminder in steel, brushed reflections caught in cycles of recycled air.

Deep inside the intermix chamber, the tiny device completes its first metamorphosis. It kisses the interior wall, unwraps itself in petal-like folds, and adheres to the metal with a wet, capillary grip. The plasma washes past, a river of chained suns. The device drinks. It drinks again. It sleeps with one eye open.

The device hums, almost happy in its simple programming way.

-END-

 

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