Conflict of Confidence.

Posted on Fri Jan 2nd, 2026 @ 1:14pm by Lieutenant Commander Ferrand Beaulieu

754 words; about a 4 minute read

Mission: The Hand That Rocks The Babe
Location: CAG's Office
Timeline: Prior to departure

The cavernous main hangar of the U.S.S. Dreadnought thrummed with restrained power, deck plates vibrating almost imperceptibly as the ship’s warp core spooled toward readiness. Tractor emitters flickered in disciplined patterns, final checks running across flight control displays, and the sharp scent of ionized plasma hung in the air, a smell Ferrand Beaulieu knew as well as his own heartbeat.

Lieutenant Commander Ferrand Beaulieu stood at the edge of the flight deck, hands clasped behind his back in the regulation posture of a CAG, yet his thoughts were anything but orderly.

Where one of his fighters should have been, sleek, aggressive, unmistakably his, there was only empty deck and memory.

The wreck played again behind his eyes, uninvited. Hull plating tearing away from strain. Control surfaces shearing threatening to tear off. The fighter, his fighter, the one she made, dying beneath him in a firestorm of broken vectors and emergency alarms pushed to the limits by his own two hands. Built by loving hands, tuned and retuned by someone who knew not just the ship, but the pilot inside it. Victoria had poured herself into that craft the way Ferrand poured himself into the sky.

And it had still not been enough.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tightening as he forced his gaze away from the vacant space and back to the organized chaos of the hangar. Pilots moved with practiced confidence, crews calling out status reports, mag-locks clamping fighters into launch configuration. They looked to him, every one of them, for certainty, for calm, for leadership.

Instead, doubt walked beside him like a shadow.

What if I hesitate next time?
What if I lead them into the same fire?
What if my luck finally runs out?

For the first time in his career, Ferrand Beaulieu, ace pilot, squadron commander, survivor, was not entirely certain he deserved the wings on his chest. Right now his sole source of stability was the faith, believe and love that Victoria had for him. To Ferrand, she was gravity. He straightened, shoulders squaring as the CAG mask slid back into place. Doubt might still be there, whispering at the edges of his thoughts, but it no longer ruled him. Not while she was there. Not while his pilots depended on him.

His voice carried cleanly across the hangar.
“Flight operations, report final status.”

The Dreadnought was about to leave orbit.
And Ferrand Beaulieu would lead his wing into the void, haunted, yes, but not alone.

Ferrand remained where he was long after the final status reports had been logged. The launch crews dispersed to their stations, pilots filed out toward briefing rooms and ready areas, and the ordered chaos faded into disciplined quiet. What remained was the hollow stillness that always followed preparation, the moment when there was nothing left to do but commit.

He walked slowly across the deck, boots ringing against the duranium plating, stopping at a small recessed alcove along the hangar wall. A scorched fragment of hull plating was mounted there, no larger than his forearm, its surface still marred by heat scoring and microfractures. Officially, it was a training artifact, a reminder of the dangers of high-energy combat operations.

Ferrand knew better.

He reached out, fingers hovering just short of touching it. His hand trembled, only slightly, but he noticed. He always noticed now.

I survived, he reminded himself, the thought lacking the conviction it once carried. Survival felt less like a victory and more like an unanswered question. Others had trusted him that day—trusted his judgment, his instincts, his confidence. And confidence, once cracked, never quite felt the same again.

Ferrand closed his eyes. He pictured his pilots, not as names on a roster, but as faces. Voices. Habits. The way one always checked his gloves twice. The way another hummed old Earth music before launch. They believed in him. That belief was heavier than any doubt.

Slowly, deliberately, he drew a breath and let it settle.

“I am still here,” he murmured, the words barely audible over the hum of the hangar. "But I won't forget who isn't."

His hand lowered. He turned away from the relic and resumed his measured stride toward the exit, posture once again composed, expression once again unreadable. The CAG returned to the surface, polished and professional, but beneath it, the scars remained, quiet and sharp.

Ferrand Beaulieu faced forward.

Doubt might follow him into the stars.
But he would not let it fly the mission.

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