If Only It Were So Easy

Posted on Tue Nov 25th, 2025 @ 10:43pm by Lieutenant Commander Ferrand Beaulieu

450 words; about a 2 minute read

Mission: The Hand That Rocks The Babe
Location: Hangar Bay 1, Flight Operations Office
Timeline: Current

The rhythmic hum of lifts and hydraulic clamps was the only music Hangar Bay 1 ever played. To most, it was noise, metal and movement. But to Lt. Cmdr. Ferrand Beaulieu, it was routine, order, control.

Behind the reinforced glass of his flight operations office, he watched it all: technicians guiding supply pallets toward the launch cradles, deck crews waving signal paddles as fuel lines detached from strike fighters, and pilots milling near their briefings in half-zipped flight suits.

The resupply from Earth had finally arrived, crates of munitions, biosupport modules, new helmet units, and a much-needed transfer of reserve pilots, still shaking off transit stiffness. It was a beautiful, chaotic ballet, and Ferrand oversaw it like a conductor with no baton—just a console, three holoscreens, and a mug of Coffee that had long gone cold.

He tapped a finger against the display, pulling up sortie rotation schedules. Three of his best were still grounded with stress-induced migraines, another had walked off the flight deck yesterday after vomiting in her helmet. Rookies. And too many ghosts.

Ferrand let out a breath and rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling the stiffness in his fingers. He hadn’t slept properly i, what, five nights? Maybe six.

Every time he closed his eyes, it came back.

The weapon hurtling towards the Admiral's location and he was helpless to stop it.

They’d never recovered the Admiral's body, they couldn't. It was a loss that was denied proper closure, closure that many needed. He told the board he died a hero. Told the squadron it wasn’t their fault.

But he never told himself.

His reflection stared back at him faintly in the dark glass, sharp cheekbones, grey eyes rimmed red, and dark hair tied back too tightly. Forty-two, though lately he felt older.

A chime broke through the hum.

“Flight Deck Control to CAG,” came the voice of Deck Chief Renn. “We’ve got a misrouted munitions crate, label says Type-Sevens, but the serial numbers don't match requisition. Want me to bounce it back?”

Ferrand keyed the mic. “Negative. Move it to Bay Two’s secondary. I’ll review it later.”

“Copy that, sir.”

He leaned back in his chair, listening to the bay for a moment. Beyond the office walls, fighters were being lowered into maintenance pits. A tech shouted something about a fried coolant line. Laughter followed from another corner.
Life went on.

He reached down into his drawer, pulled out a slim, unmarked datachip. It held the combat logs from that day, the day they lost S’iraa. He’d watched it six times already. Tonight would be seven.

Unless sleep found him first.

But he doubted it would.

RSS Feed