The access corridor to Deck One was colder than it should have been. The environmental readout blinked a soft amber, insisting the temperature was stable at 22°C — but Franklin’s breath still fogged faintly in the air.

The further his team moved toward the impulse manifold housing, the quieter it got. Not silence exactly — the hum of the ship was still there — but muffled, like sound was being swallowed before it reached the ear.

Crewman Del and Ensign Jora flanked Franklin, tricorders out, beams cutting cones of sterile light through the half-lit corridor. Every few meters, the displays flickered with interference — subspace noise bleeding into engineering telemetry.

When the team reached the manifold chamber, the hatch controls pulsed weakly. Franklin’s code didn’t register on the first attempt. Or the second. On the third, the lock gave with a hiss that sounded almost…reluctant.

Inside, the manifold assembly hung dormant — a great, circular engine heart, dark and still. But its surfaces weren’t dead.

The metallic housing rippled faintly, a distortion rolling across its plating like a heat mirage — except there was no heat. Tricorder readings spiked wildly:

Energy Signature: fluctuating between plasma and chronometric emissions.

Magnetic Field Alignment: unstable, shifting polarity every 0.7 seconds.

Localized Temporal Drift: 0.04 seconds per second.

In the reflected light, Franklin could swear the alloy of the manifold wasn’t solid anymore. It moved — microscopically, rhythmically — expanding and contracting like the slow breath of something enormous trying to wake up.

Then the intercom crackled. Karl’s voice, distant but warped, filtered through static:
“—ranklin… reading something—?— don’t—”

The sound cut out.

And in the hush that followed, Crewman Del whispered, almost to himself,
“Chief… do you hear that?”

There — buried in the hull, beneath the manifold’s pulse — came a faint, syncopated tapping.
Not random.
Patterned.
Almost like… replying.

EvilJen, DDoSFEO