Patterns in the Silence: Part I – The Gym and the Ghosts

Posted on Tue Sep 9th, 2025 @ 6:57pm by Sergeant Jace Morven

1,724 words; about a 9 minute read

U.S.S. Guinevere, Gym, 2388

The gym is big enough. Room for racks, mats, drills. Quiet too, this far from the barracks. At this hour it feels sealed off from the rest of the ship. No viewport, no stars. Just the steady hum of the systems and the sound of my boots and breathing.

The mats give when I step on them. Firm, but not hard. Corners squared, no folds. Someone checks them, keeps them tight. Care like that tells you everything. The weights are stacked against the wall, clean and heavy, no dust, no slack in the lines. Not storage. Territory. Someone’s mark on the place. Maybe a person, maybe many who work together as one. You never know really, not before you are surrounded in it.

I roll my shoulders, my muscles respond the way I expect them to. Tight, but not weak. Scar tissue pulls in places where it always has, like seams stitched wrong. I know each tug, each reminder. My body has mapped itself through pain and recovery. Every line, every limit, I’ve learnt. It’s helpful in a way, to know your limitations, your own mortality.

On Turkana there were no mats. Just cracked concrete and rust. Ash that clung to skin and left you coughing. No clean silence either. Always someone moving, shouting, waiting for an excuse to fight. You trained in the dark if you had to. You learnt balance on surfaces that shifted, grip on things that cut back. You learnt because you had no choice.

Here the silence is too clean. No dust, no grit, nothing to measure against. Peace doesn’t sit right. Too neat. Too quiet. Makes me itch. I tell myself this space could be mine one day. Not yet. Not today. And that too is okay, to be expected. This will be the longest I’ve stayed in one place, on a ship.
The bag hangs in the corner. Starfleet colour, standard for places where no one really thinks about it. Some ships have them brown and worn, or even shining wherever you strike them, with coding for impact force. I don’t like that…it shows off too much. Not everyone need to know everything.

I stand in front of the mirrored wall. The screens are set to mirror mode, and there I am. I tilt my head, just enough to see myself from another angle. It’s a familiar sight, although rarely this clean and clear.

Broad shoulders. Solid frame. Muscle built because it had to be, not because I wanted it. Years of drills and hunger shaped it. Not speed. Not finesse. Just strength enough to hit hard and keep going. It is just how it is and while circumstances and age changes it, it is still mine.

Others look different. The easy kind of strong you get from clean food and steady training. Faces that smile without thinking. Bodies that move without remembering where the scars pull. I do not have that. Never did.

There is dark hair, trimmed close at the sides, longer on top. Regulation enough, I schedule in and do it. Routine, maintenance...just that. Combed back because it is easier that way. I haven't shaven today, I know I will have to the day after tomorrow before I get pulled up on my appearance. I know that I have a slight cleft in my chin, know it from childhood. I’ve heard they’re genetic. My eyes are pale, but blue. Sharp. They hold steady. They do not flinch. I know what people see when they look at them. What I make them see. But here, in the quiet, I catch something else. A slip I do not want. Not sadness. Not regret. Just a softness that does not belong. Memory is pulling too hard, leaving the edge exposed.

I look away and dismiss the reflection. It is wasted focus, and wasted time. Self-analysis does nothing. Not with this weight sitting under my skin. I step toward the bag.

I pause for a moment. Vale’s voice runs through my head: You are instructed to come to sickbay for all health issues, however minor you may consider them. It is not a suggestion but an order. To keep damage limited. To keep me intact. No one has ever said that to me before. Orders were always about how far I could go, how much I could take. Not where to stop.

The thought sits wrong, like armour buckled on the wrong side.

I reach into my pocket, pull out the roll of self-adhesive gauze. I start the wrap. Slow, then tighter. Each turn neat, even. The pressure is familiar. A ritual, not just protection. Hundreds of times before, but it steadies me every time. Strip by strip, the noise quiets.

I square my stance and pivot, striking hard. The bag takes it, it's solid. I don't waste effort of movement but hit it again, another punch landing. Then another and another. The rhythm sets in. Measured. Violence turned into calibration. Sweat on my skin. Breathing regular. And then the rhythm slips and memory pulls me under.

Turkana IV, 2361

The workshop stinks of metal baked too long. Burned plastic. Melted insulation. Sweat that clings to skin and never dries. The air catches in my throat, thick and sour. It’s worse today, after the fighting and fires.

The plasma stabiliser in my hands is bent and blackened. Shrapnel, maybe. I do not care. I can still fix it. My fingers keep moving, even though the cuts sting. Blood works into the grime and makes the skin tacky. There is a blister on the side of my thumb, raw from the last job. It itches, but I ignore it. Better to focus on the screws.

“Boy.”

I do not flinch. Flinching gets you bruises. I raise my head instead. Make sure not to change my breathing, to keep my eyes flat.

I am ten, I think. Not sure, not like someone kept a hold of that stuff. I look ten. The faction likes us that age. We are small, fast, starving...easier to shape. Easier to use. The first time someone tried to drag me off the street, I bit down hard. Drew blood, the taste lingering for days. Lost a loose tooth but it grew out again. The kick came fast after. Knocked the breath out of me, bruised me for days.

That was the lesson. You learn it early here, we all learn it. Pain sets the order. Obedience keeps you fed. Resistance gets you killed.

Harven fills the doorway, one shoulder dragged down by what I know is a coil of power cells. His boots are caked in something dark. I don’t ask. Last week was bloody. The churn is starting again.

“You deaf?” His voice cuts sharp, rough. “You playing engineer or prepping the cache?”

I keep my eyes on the stabiliser. “The outer turret’s dead. If they hit us tonight, southeast’s wide open.”

He frowns but doesn’t argue. I don’t know why he looks like that when I speak. I just know not to push it. Better to keep my words plain. Just explain the work and leave it there. “Fine. After that, you check the cache.” His fingers flicked like I should hurry. He stays in the doorway though, one boot still on the step. Watching me. “You still going by that name?”

I turn the bolt tighter, slow, steady. “I don’t remember.” That was true enough. You forgot things on purpose sometimes.

Harven scoffs. “Someone called you ‘Jace’ last week. That stick?”

I shrug, still working. “Someone used to call me that. Maybe.” And I leave it there. Better not to say more.

The silence stretches. Thin, tight. Then Harven’s voice drops, colder. Sharper. “Forget it. You don’t get to keep names unless you earn ’em.”

Then he is gone, with the sound of boots on metal and rock. The door hisses shut, a long exhale that I echo as air leaves my lungs.

I sit still, hands quiet. The hum of the machinery buzzes in my ears. Too loud, like static.

I try to remember. A woman’s voice. Soft. A hand on my shoulder. The sound of a name. My name. It almost comes, then slips away. Like trying to catch smoke.

The harder I reach for it, the further it goes. Until there’s nothing. Just the ache of it, sitting heavy in my chest.

I don’t know if it was Jace or something that sounded like it. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe Harven is right. Besides, names didn’t keep you alive. Food did. Work did. Being a useful tool kept you breathing.

I bend back over the stabiliser. The turret has to be fixed. That is what matters, it’s what’ll let me breathe another day.

USS Guinevere, Gym, 2388

I blink, my knuckles stinging. Sweat runs down my temple, I feel it tickling my skin. Time’s gone again.

I grab the bottle and drink. Thirst, yes. But also because sweat means loss. Fluids have to be replaced. It’s logical. My shoulder aches, dull and familiar. I roll it until the pull eases. Not real pain. Just the echo of it. Tension from movement without a proper warm up. I’m getting older, ten years ago it wouldn’t be an issue. But I can at least dismiss this as discomfort that’ll pass.

I wipe my face, slow my breathing. The bag sways in front of me, steady as a heartbeat. I think about hitting it again. Instead, it comes out of me in silence. A wave that rises inside, feels too tight in my chest. I kick it. Hard, flat, driving through the centre. No form, nothing trained. Just brute force. A break in the rhythm, the sort that almost throws me off balance as my foot hits the deck.
I watch the bag swing, jaw tight. The flash of heat inside me fades with it, leaving nothing said.

Then I step back, slowly. Let it all bleed away as I focus on my heartbeats.

---

Sergeant Jace Morven
Platoon Sergeant, Alpha Squad
Federation Ground Forces
USS Guinevere

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