Captain Getz had no interest in becoming an admiral.

He loved life aboard ship. The rhythm of command, the clarity of duty, the knowledge that even complicated problems eventually became decisions. Politics offered no such clarity. The endless jockeying among ambitious officers grated on him, especially those who advanced by turning others’ failures into opportunities for themselves.

Commander David Kales was exactly that sort of officer.

The doctor was intelligent and technically capable. Getz would never have allowed him to remain aboard Artemis otherwise. But Kales devoted that intelligence to identifying weakness in his fellow crewmen, not earning their trust. Getz recognized the behavior from people who thought they understood how institutions rewarded success, and who were perfectly willing to let someone else absorb the risk of producing it while positioning themselves to reap the rewards.

People like that were dangerous to peers, but more importantly to Getz, they were dangerous to his ship.

There was little Getz could do about it until Artemis completed her current patrol. Medical officers with Kales’ qualifications were not easily replaced on the Fringe, and Getz had no intention of entering a deployment cycle without a senior physician merely because he disliked the one assigned to him.

Lieutenant Michael Thomas was ambitious as well, but his confidence came with demonstrated ability. A legacy officer from a family with deep naval roots, Thomas had the combination of a famous name and a talent to back it. Merit could be overlooked in the privileged, but Thomas left little doubt that he had earned his position. His principal flaw was arrogance.

Thomas formed opinions quickly, defended them fiercely, and did not always remember that an officer’s judgment remained subordinate to command. Naturally, that put him in conflict with Kales whenever their responsibilities overlapped.

This time, the issue was the mystery guest in DECON-5.

Getz’s cabin was compact but more comfortable than most compartments aboard Artemis. The desk molded itself subtly to his posture, lowering a fraction as he leaned forward. A narrow status display ran along the wall behind it, showing the ship’s course, power balance, and compartment conditions in a line of muted symbols.

Thomas stood at attention before the desk. Kales waited several steps behind him, hands folded neatly at his back.

“Lieutenant,” Getz said, his voice low and controlled, “you were aware that I had not authorized the subject to be briefed on his condition.”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“Why, then, did Commander Kales inform me that you instructed him to disclose our findings?”

Thomas glanced toward Kales. “Because I believed the explanation would be more useful coming from the physician who conducted the examination.”

“That was not what I asked.”

“No, sir.”

Getz waited.

Thomas exhaled through his nose. “I believed Mr. Phillips deserved to know what had been done to him.”

Kales remained motionless in the corner, his expression professionally blank.

Getz placed the data-pad on his desk harder than he intended. The impact produced a dull report against the adaptive surface.

The cabin lights flickered causeing all three men to look up. The status strip along the wall dimmed for half a second, then returned to normal.

Getz looked back at Thomas. “Your beliefs, like your faith, are personal matters,” he said. “My orders are not. We do not know who Mr. Phillips is, who placed him in that capsule, or why someone did what they did to him. Until we understand more about what we are dealing with, information is released at my discretion.”

“Sir, permission to speak freely?”

“No.”

Thomas’s jaw tightened.

“Lieutenant Commander Polson will assume responsibility for the subject effective immediately.”

“Captain—”

“That was not a question.”

Thomas held Getz’s stare for a moment. “Yes, sir.”

“I’m marking you for disregarding a direct order. Any further unauthorized contact with Mr. Phillips will result in more than a notation in your record. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.” The lights flickered again, and Getz glanced toward the ceiling. “In fact, Lieutenant, you are on lightbulb duty. Find out why Arte’ keeps mood lighting me every time I raise my voice.”

Thomas’s expression shifted as if he could not decide whether the remark reduced or increased the severity of the reprimand. “Aye, sir.”

He saluted stiffly and left without another word. The door sealed behind him, its surface smoothing until the frame nearly disappeared into the wall.

Kales stepped forward. “I suppose he will be on the comm with his father at the first opportunity,” he said.

“He is not that kind of officer.”

“I hope you are correct.”

“You’re not off the hook, Commander.”

Kales lifted his eyebrows slightly. “Excuse me, sir?”

“You outrank Thomas.”

“As the ship’s physician, I rarely consider rank when discussing medical matters with command personnel.”

“That must be convenient.”

“I was also attempting to respect your decision to place Lieutenant Thomas in charge of the subject’s security.”

“But you understood my order?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you followed Thomas’s instruction anyway.”

Kales allowed a measured pause before answering. “I believed the conflict between the two directives was worth bringing to your attention.”

“After you had already violated mine.”

Kales responded with silence rather than admit the indiscretion.

Getz leaned back. The desk rose almost imperceptibly with him. “Consider yourself marked on this as well.”

“On what grounds?”

“I’d love to use passive insubordination, but failure to follow a direct order will have to do. I expect you’ll paint it some other way in the retelling.”

Kales’s expression did not change, but Getz caught the tension form along his jaw.

“I don’t have time for this kind of maneuvering from my officers,” Getz continued. “Am I clear?”

“Crystal, sir.”

“I want the complete medical report on Mr. Phillips delivered directly to me. No distribution outside this cabin. That includes MEDNET. The case is classified until I determine otherwise.”

“It is standard procedure to file all substantive findings with MEDNET,” Kales said. “Omitting a case of this nature could constitute a serious breach of medical protocol.”

“Captain’s discretion allows me to restrict transmission of information that may affect ship or fleet security. You know that.”

“I am simply noting the potential consequences.”

“No, Commander. You are establishing a record that allows you to claim you objected if this becomes inconvenient later.”

Kales’s composure slipped, if only slightly.

Getz waved him towards the door. “Dismissed.”

Kales saluted with thinly veiled disdain and left.

Getz remained at his desk for several moments, allowing the cabin to settle around him. The ventilation system produced little more than a whisper. The status strip continued its steady crawl along the wall, reporting that Artemis was operating within acceptable limits.

At their next port, he would request another medical officer.

Perhaps Kales could be assigned somewhere deep in the Core—some isolated research station with too many sensors and not enough people. The irony was that Kales might consider such an assignment a reward. Even so, Getz would not willingly transfer the problem to another ship.

Once his irritation subsided, he touched a recessed control beneath the desk, opening a drawer from the side.

Inside rested the bag recovered with their guest. The decontamination team had already swept every item for biological, chemical, and radiological hazards. Arte’ had cataloged the contents, scanned their construction, and found no active transmissions or recognizable data systems.

The objects themselves remained unexplained.

Getz removed the wallet Thomas had shown Phillips and unfolded it across the desk. The material was genuine leather. Not cultured tissue or a synthetic analog, but animal hide treated through methods that had nearly disappeared centuries ago. The wallet had been worn smooth along its edges, molded by years of use and the shape of its contents.

The identification card inside was well preserved for something supposedly manufactured five centuries earlier. Its surface bore some scratches and pressure marks, but the printed image remained sharp. The stasis capsule might account for its condition, assuming the capsule had remained sealed throughout its journey. Several other plastic cards filled other pockets, long strings of numbers, magnetic strips, primitive embedded circuits. None possessed enough processing capacity to be useful as a modern data device.

A wad of paper currency occupied the larger compartment. The notes were crisp, colorful, and individually printed with faces and archaic government seals. If authentic, their historical value would exceed whatever purchasing power they had once represented.

The clothing came next: trousers, undergarments, a buttoned shirt, and a long coat. The cuts were unfamiliar but not incomprehensible. Civilian fashion had circled back on itself often enough that none of the garments would attract much attention in a modern city.

The construction was more revealing. Every seam had been stitched mechanically. The fasteners were simple metal teeth or shaped buttons. The fabric had no embedded temperature control or identity weave. Primitive, but practical.

Then came a narrow strip of multicolored fabric, tapered at both ends. Getz held it up, puzzling out the purpose. A sash, perhaps. No. A necktie. He had seen them in historical images, formal clothing from the pre-expansion period. The wearer knotted it around the throat for reasons Getz had never understood. Ceremonial discomfort had a long tradition.

A thick leather belt lay beneath it, solid and carefully maintained. Manufacturer markings appeared inside several garments, but none provided information beyond names that had disappeared from every accessible commercial registry. Nothing was monogrammed. No unit insignia, no organizational markings, no personal message hidden in the stitching.

The shoes were low-cut leather with rubber soles. They were worn but not neglected. Their laces remained looped through metal eyelets and tied with deliberate care.

Getz ran a thumb along the darkened edge of one shoe, noting the polish. The sight brought back his first year at the academy: brushes, cloth, wax, and hours spent preparing footwear that automated inspection systems could have cleaned more efficiently in seconds. The ritual had never truly been about appearance; it had been about discipline.

Attention to detail and the willingness to complete an unnecessary task correctly because someone had required it. Whoever Phillips had been, he had learned the same lesson. Getz set the shoes beside the clothing and reached into the bag for the final item.

A stiff synthetic holster with a weapon secured inside it.

Getz placed the holster on his desk. His fingers closed around the grip. The design was archaic, but its purpose was unmistakable. Centuries of weapons development had altered materials, ammunition, targeting, and control systems. The fundamental relationship between hand, grip, barrel, and target had changed very little.

He released the retention strap and drew the pistol.

It was heavy. The lower frame appeared to be made from a textured synthetic material. The upper assembly was dark ceramic and metal, cold and precisely machined. The controls were purely mechanical. There was no biometric lock, no power cell, no network handshake, and no targeting interface. Arte’ would not recognize its authorized user or know it had been fired until the consequences registered elsewhere. The weapon would not report its location, ammunition count, maintenance status, or target. It would simply function.

Getz examined the magazine, then checked the chamber before returning the weapon to a safe condition. The motions were familiar enough, though the arrangement of the controls was not. He knew enough to avoid the trigger. A simple machine built for a direct purpose.

Unusual for anyone to enter stasis armed, almost unheard of.

“Well, Mr. Phillips,” Getz murmured as he set the pistol beside the wallet, “I think you’re going to have one hell of a story to tell.”

When the door to the captain’s quarters sealed behind Commander Kales, he paused in the corridor long enough to compose his expression.

Cool, neutral, unbothered. Only then did he begin walking toward the medical section. He would maintain a separate record of the Phillips case. Not in violation of the captain’s order, he told himself, but as a responsible medical safeguard. Once the patrol ended and the restrictions were lifted, he could use those notes to reconstruct the MEDNET entry with appropriate precision.

Castaway recoveries were not uncommon. Failed transports, damaged capsules, navigational errors, criminal abandonment—space produced more than enough ways for a person to become lost. Phillips was different.

The age of the capsule, the absence of an initiation record, the selective neurological surgery, and the subject’s unusual composure transformed a routine recovery into a potentially significant medical case. Historical significance, psychological significance, possibly technological significance. Handled properly, the case could become the kind of study that outlived the assignment that produced it.

As Kales reached the pressure bulkhead separating the command and habitation sections, he saw Lieutenant Commander Polson approaching from the opposite direction. Polson was the kind of officer recruitment bureaus loved. Tall, fit, composed, and professionally distant, he carried a data-pad beneath one arm and moved with the crisp economy of someone who never expected to be required to repeat an order.

“Commander,” Kales said, falling into step beside him. “Heading in to see the captain?”

“Briefing handoff,” Polson replied with a polite but impersonal nod. “Standard status update.”

“Of course.” Kales offered a thin smile. “I just came from there myself. Productive conversation.”

“Good.” Polson did not slow.

“I imagine you have reviewed the reports concerning our guest.”

“I have reviewed the authorized logs.” The distinction was deliberate.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” Kales continued. “A man apparently displaced from his own time. No record of stasis initiation, no associated vessel, no data trail—and yet here he is. Calm. Cooperative. Perfectly composed.”

“He has been conscious for less than a day.”

“Which makes the composure more interesting.”

“It makes any conclusion premature.”

Kales studied him. “The captain has assigned you responsibility for the subject?”

“He has.”

“And his direction?”

“Continued isolation and observation until we reach Curaçao.”

“Yes. The cautious route.” Kales paused, hoping to give Polson’s ambition a moment to catch hold. “It strikes me that there may be an opportunity we are overlooking. A subject like this could possess psychological, historical, and perhaps technological importance. Keeping him confined without more extensive evaluation may waste the most valuable period of observation.”

Polson stopped. He turned only slightly, but the motion brought the conversation to an immediate halt. “You are suggesting that I authorize testing beyond what the captain ordered?”

“I am suggesting that the captain may benefit from additional recommendations.”

“He has yours.”

“More than one professional perspective rarely causes harm.”

“Sometimes it does.”

Kales’s smile remained in place. “Protocol can be interpreted differently by different commanders.”

“Not this one.” Polson resumed walking. “If you are hoping I will advocate for an expanded evaluation, you have misread both the captain and me.”

“I was merely exploring perspectives, Commander.”

“Then consider mine explored.” Polson continued toward the captain’s cabin.

Kales did not follow. His smile slowly faded as he made for the med bay.

Next Chapter: III