"Ghosts and Glass Jaws" Part 1
Posted on 11 Feb 2026 @ 2:18am by Lieutenant Commander Grayson McKinney
1,554 words; about a 8 minute read
Mission:
Silent Inheritance
Location: DECK 2 SENIOR STAFF MESS
0630 HOURS | DECK 2 SENIOR STAFF MESS
A hiss split the morning silence as the replicator dispensed a steaming mug into Grayson’s hand. The metallic tang of recycled air clung to his tongue, a taste so familiar he barely registered it. Then the coffee scalded his tongue, sharp and bitter, as he tried not to think about why they'd gathered at this hour.
Fourteen years in Starfleet, and he could sense the tension more keenly than ever: the uneasy silence stretching too long between sips, the way no one quite met his eyes. The air felt thick with all the words about trouble still unspoken. Breakfast meetings always meant something was wrong, but this time, he already knew it was going to be the kind where his coffee went cold in his hand.
This was shaping up to be the latter.
He claimed the corner table, coffee cooling in his grip, while his tactical leads, Lieutenant Reyna Keagan and Lieutenant JG Sal Denari, took turns delivering their version of a disaster briefing. Keagan, fingers tapping a steady staccato against her PADD, spoke in clipped, brisk words, as if she had mapped every problem in advance. Denari, in contrast, kept tracing the rim of his mug with a distracted thumb, his voice softer, sentences trailing off as if giving you space to fill in the blanks yourself. The distinction played out in the way Keagan spoke in concise bullet points, while Denari fretted over technical nuances, each bringing their own rhythm and flavor to the bad news.
Their table, near the viewport, offered a clear view of Lathira IV, serene and beautiful, a polished gemstone adrift in the void. The planet was indifferent to the tension in the mess.
"Thanks for meeting before shift. Figured it's better to hear the bad news over breakfast than in the middle of Alpha shift. Besides, if we make Denari go first thing in the morning, maybe Keagan won't scare him off before his second coffee."
Keagan shared a look with Denari. That told Grayson everything he needed to know before they'd even opened their mouths.
"Sir," Keagan began, setting her PADD on the table, "the tactical suite's acting like one of those old Ferengi Dabo wheels. Every time I think I've got it figured out, it spins up a whole new malfunction, and the odds of a successful diagnostic payout are worse than three percent. It's got… personality."
Grayson arched an eyebrow.
"Personality. That's the official term?"
Denari leaned forward, fingers tapping lightly on the table in a nervous pattern that reminded Grayson of himself.
"The targeting grid is pulling four-point-two percent over spec during Red Alert simulations. Power distribution looks clean on Engineering's end, but the phaser arrays are drawing power as if they're tracking multiple contacts, even when the grid shows empty space. That kind of drain doesn't sound like much until you miss a volley, lose just one salvo, and suddenly you've got a hull breach on Deck 8 and emergency crews scrambling."
Grayson sipped his coffee. Four-point-two percent. Not a disaster. Not safe, either. In combat, that margin was the difference between a clean kill and a missed shot. Missed shots got people killed.
"Sensor echoes?" he asked. "Phantom targets?"
"That's what we thought," Keagan said.
Grayson ran through a quick mental checklist. Sensor calibration, array alignment, electromagnetic interference, anything that might be flooding the grid with phantom contacts. He chased the possibilities in a heartbeat, all paths leading to the answer he dreaded.
"But the sensors are clean. The arrays just… think there's something out there."
Grayson set his mug down. "And the dorsal phaser coupling?"
Denari winced, a nervous glance. "Intermittent. Chief Engineer Harlan locked out the tactical console at the hardware level after the last diagnostic. He left you a note."
"A note."
"A sticky note, sir. On the bridge tactical console. Said not to initialize the array until you talk to him."
The corner of Grayson's mouth twitched. A sticky note on a Sovereign-class bridge. He decided he liked this engineer.
"All right," Grayson said, leaning comfortably in his chair. "What else?"
Keagan pulled up a schematic on her PADD and slid it across the table.
"Torpedo launch cycle on the aft tubes is point-three seconds slower than the forward tubes. Targeting scanners have a two-degree drift on high-warp intercepts. And the shield harmonics…" She trailed off, shaking her head.
"Lemme guess," Grayson said. "The yard signed off on all of it."
"Yes, sir."
Grayson drummed his fingers. The Arawyn was new, powerful, and like every ship fresh from the yard, a mess beneath the polish. He ran through the checklist: isolate faults, recalibrate power, stress-test arrays, verify sensors. Same drill, new hull.
He'd seen this before. Fixed it before.
"All right," Grayson said, standing. He drained the last of his coffee and picked up Keagan's PADD. "I'm going to talk to Commander Harlan. You two run a full diagnostic on the sensor grid. I want to know whether those phantom targets are a software error or something more serious. And pull the logs on the aft torpedo tubes. If there's a delay, I want to know why."
Keagan nodded. "Yes, sir."
Denari hesitated. "Sir, Commander Harlan is… protective of the ship. He's been chasing down every glitch the yard left behind since he arrived. He's not going to be happy if you—"
"If I what?" Grayson asked, with a light but pointed tone. "If I want to fix my tactical systems?"
"If you imply the ship isn't perfect, sir."
Grayson allowed himself a wry smile. "Then I'll be sure to imply it carefully. Dismissed."
0700 Hours | Bridge
The turbolift doors parted, and Grayson stepped onto the bridge, his new domain.
The Arawyn's bridge delivered on every recruitment holo: sleek, modern, bathed in the blue glow of LCARS. The captain's chair waited at the center, brushed duranium and leather. The viewscreen filled the forward bulkhead, Lathira IV rendered in crystalline detail. The air vibrated with the low hum of bio-neural processors, a resonance that settled in the bones.
It was beautiful.
It was also wrong.
Grayson's tactical console, his station, his post for the years ahead, was dark. The primary monitor was dead, LCARS unresponsive. A yellow sticky note clung to the edge, a blemish against the bridge's clean lines.
He crossed to the tactical arch in three long strides and pulled the note free.
Do not initialize. You'll fry the dorsal coupling. Come to Main Engineering. – Harlan
Grayson read it twice, brow furrowing. Just as he reached for the console, Ensign Barret at ops glanced over from his station, voice pitched low.
"Sir, Chief Harlan made it pretty clear no one should touch that until he gives the go-ahead."
The words hung in the air, a quiet warning, eyes flickering between Grayson and the dormant console.
Grayson hesitated only a heartbeat. "Noted, Ensign," he replied, and tapped the console to test it.
Nothing. Not even a flicker. The system was locked out at the hardware, physically severed from the main grid. Someone had crawled the Jefferies tubes and pulled relays by hand.
Grayson folded the note and tucked it into his uniform pocket. Then he tapped his combadge.
"McKinney to Harlan."
Two beats of silence. Long enough for Grayson to wonder if Harlan was making a point. Then a voice, clipped and edged with exhaustion and caffeine, came through.
"Harlan here."
"Commander, this is Lieutenant Commander McKinney. I'm standing on the bridge, staring at my tactical console, which appears dead. You left me a note."
"I did. You read it?"
"I did. Care to explain why my station is offline?"
There was a pause. Then, dryly: "Because the last time someone initialized the targeting grid, they nearly fried the dorsal phaser coupling. I'd rather not replace it before we leave orbit. If you want the long explanation, come to Main Engineering. If you want the short version: your tactical suite has issues the yard didn't fix. Bring coffee."
As he listened, Grayson appreciated the blunt care in Harlan's reply. It mattered to him, too: not just hardware, but the principle. Systems should work right, or you didn't sign your name beside them. Grayson filed that away, a hint of common ground he could respect.
Grayson let a grin tug at the corner of his mouth. "On my way, Commander."
He tapped his combadge again, cutting the channel, and turned toward the turbolift.
Behind him, the duty officer, a young ensign at ops, looked up, nervous.
"Sir, is everything all right?"
"Define 'all right,'" Grayson said, moving into the turbolift. "Deck fifteen. Main Engineering."
The doors closed. The turbolift hummed down through the ship's heart.
Grayson leaned on the railing, fingers drumming his thigh, thinking of the sticky note in his pocket.
He suspected he and Harlan would get along, or not.
Or they were going to drive each other insane.
Either way, it was going to be interesting.
The turbolift doors parted on Deck 15. The corridor was warmer, tinged with the scent of hot duranium, the ship's heart.
Ahead, Main Engineering's doors yawned open, the warp core pulsing like a caged star.
He stepped through the doors into Main Engineering.
And found Chief Engineer Elias Harlan waiting for him.
End Log
Lt. Commander Grayson Oliveras McKinney
Chief Tactical Officer
USS Arawyn
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