Always one more horizon … one more hill to cross over … one more tree to look behind.
Nyr Nordhavn
Season 01 — Episode 08
Written by Alan Tripp
2412
The Sollace Cottage — Ulfrvik
Operations Group Baston
Hell’s Gate Nebula
“It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step into the road, and if
you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.”
— Bilbo Baggins
Chapter Three
The door closed behind the departing ensign, and for several moments neither Alan nor Lyara spoke.
The cottage seemed strangely quiet after his departure.
Only a few minutes earlier the room had been filled with laughter, rain-soaked confusion, and the kind of harmless chaos that seemed to follow young officers wherever they went. Now the silence had returned, settling comfortably back into the corners of the room like an old friend reclaiming familiar territory.
Outside, rain continued drifting across the highlands.
The Silver Tide remained visible beyond the clouds, its pale radiance occasionally breaking through gaps in the weather to cast silver reflections across the fjord below. Wind whispered softly against the cottage walls while somewhere in the distance waves rolled against the shoreline.
Inside, the fire continued its patient work.
The fresh log Alan had placed upon the hearth had begun to catch, and warm golden light danced across the stonework while shadows moved lazily across the ceiling beams overhead.
For a moment the cottage felt exactly as it had before.
Almost.
The difference rested in Alan’s hand.
A simple data cylinder.
A small object.
Unremarkable.
Yet both of them understood what it represented.
Priority courier packets did not travel across Rhya’thor in the middle of the night because someone wanted to exchange recipes or discuss vacation schedules.
Something had happened.
Something important.
Something important enough that Bastion Command had decided it could not wait until morning.
Lyara watched Alan standing near the door, the cylinder resting in his hand while he stared thoughtfully at it.
“The poor man is going to spend the next month convinced he interrupted a diplomatic summit.”
Alan snorted softly.
“He interrupted something.”
That earned another laugh from her.
The sound lingered warmly in the room before gradually fading away.
Her gaze eventually dropped to the cylinder.
The smile remained.
But only slightly.
Because they both knew what came next.
The atmosphere shifted.
Not dramatically.
Neither stood straighter.
Neither suddenly transformed into officers.
The warmth of the cottage remained exactly where it had always been.
Yet another part of them quietly surfaced.
The captains.
Alan crossed the room and settled back into the chair beside the hearth.
The firelight reflected from the polished surface of the cylinder as he turned it over in his hands.
For a moment he simply looked at it.
Then he broke the seal.
Across the room Lyara moved instinctively.
Not beside him.
Not close enough to intrude.
Instead she stepped behind the chair and rested one hand gently upon his shoulder.
The gesture was familiar.
Supportive.
Comforting.
Close enough to read.
Far enough to respect the fact that the report had been addressed to him.
Alan activated the file.
A holographic display materialized above the table.
Blue-white text filled the air.
CLASSIFICATION:
BASTION COMMAND PRIORITY
RECOVERED PRELIMINARY ANALYSIS
U.S.S. SAM HOUSTON INCIDENT
The warmth of the cottage seemed to retreat slightly.
Not vanish.
Simply move farther away.
Alan felt it immediately.
That old sensation.
The narrowing of focus.
The sharpening of attention.
The part of him that had spent decades hunting mysteries, solving crises, and chasing answers quietly awakened.
His eyes moved across the report.
Telemetry fragments.
Sensor logs.
Warp field data.
Subspace resonance measurements.
Engineering assessments.
Recovery observations.
Pages upon pages of technical analysis.
Nothing unusual.
At least not initially.
Lyara remained silent behind him.
She knew better than to interrupt.
When Alan read a report like this, he disappeared into it.
Entirely.
The fire continued burning. Rain whispered against the windows. The Silver Tide drifted overhead.
And Alan read.
Minutes passed.
The report scrolled steadily downward.
Then suddenly stopped.
His eyes narrowed.
He scrolled upward.
Backward.
Reread a section.
Then another.
Then returned to the first one.
Lyara noticed immediately.
Years of command experience had taught her to recognize the signs.
“What is it?”
Alan didn’t answer.
Not because he was ignoring her.
Because he hadn’t heard her.
His attention had vanished completely into the report.
The telemetry section expanded.
Additional data windows appeared.
Comparative analysis overlays filled the display.
Alan leaned forward.
“No.”
The word escaped him unconsciously.
Barely above a whisper.
Lyara felt the change immediately.
Not in the report.
In him.
The room had disappeared from his awareness.
She had seen that happen before.
Usually moments before something exploded.
“What?”
Still no answer.
Alan continued reading.
The silence stretched.
Finally he spoke.
Very quietly.
Almost to himself.
“I know these readings.”
That got her attention.
Lyara straightened slightly.
“What do you mean you know them?”
His finger moved across the display.
Highlighting one section.
Then another.
Warp harmonics.
Subspace distortions.
Telemetry degradation patterns.
At first glance the data appeared random.
Corrupted.
Damaged.
Meaningless.
But Alan wasn’t looking at the individual numbers.
He was looking at the shape.
The structure hidden beneath them.
The pattern.
A strange pattern buried inside the noise.
Something familiar.
Something old.
Something impossible.
Alan leaned back slowly.
His eyes no longer focused on the report itself.
They were looking through it.
Into memory.
Into another investigation.
Another ship.
Another frontier.
Another life.
Lyara watched recognition settle across his face.
Not surprise. … Recognition.
Which was somehow worse.
“What ship?” she asked.
Alan remained silent for several seconds.
The fire crackled softly.
Rain continued sweeping across the fjord.
Finally he spoke.
“Hiroshima.”
The name lingered in the air between them.
Lyara frowned.
“Hiroshima?”
Alan nodded slowly.
“U.S.S. Hiroshima,” he answered. “Ship I had to run down with my Sam Houston … the different reality.”
“U.S.S. Hiroshima,” he answered quietly.
“In the reality where I was born …,”
His eyes never left the report.
“… she vanished under circumstances nobody could explain.”
“My Houston found her traveling at high warp and had a hell of a time chasing her down and bringing her out of warp.”
“When we were finally able to board her … there was no crew, only twisted distorted bulkheads and a ship so twisted in places they had to decommission her.”
“We spent months trying to unravel what happened to her.”
“These readings…”
He tapped the display.
“They’re not the same.”
“But they’re close enough to make me uncomfortable.”
His voice remained distant.
Thoughtful.
Focused.
“Houston chased her through the Horvauk frontier.”
The memories were returning now.
She could see it happening.
Years collapsing.
Old reports resurfacing.
Long-forgotten investigations emerging from the depths of memory.
Alan sat forward again.
The report scrolled beneath his fingers.
Abandoned corridors.
Missing crews.
Impossible disappearances.
Sensor readings that refused to make sense.
His jaw tightened.
“The patterns aren’t identical.”
“No mystery ever is.”
His finger tapped another section.
“But they’re close.”
Very close.
Lyara studied the display.
Then studied him.
And suddenly she understood something that made her smile despite herself.
The messenger no longer mattered.
The interrupted evening no longer mattered.
Retirement no longer mattered.
Because she had seen this look before.
Many times.
The mystery had him.
The hunt had begun.
The same curiosity that drove explorers beyond the edge of every map.
The same instinct that carried captains toward unanswered questions despite every warning telling them to turn around.
The same stubborn part of Alan Sollace that had survived timelines, realities, wars, and impossible odds because it simply could not walk away from the unknown.
For several moments she watched him.
The uncertainty she had seen earlier that evening was gone.
The doubt.
The hesitation.
The questions about whether it was finally time to step away.
Gone.
Replaced by something far older.
Something far more dangerous.
Wonder.
Curiosity.
Purpose.
Lyara folded her arms.
The smile slowly widened.
“’Standing Wolf’… it *IS* your new name.”
Alan looked up.
“What?”
“Remember what you taught me about how people can outgrow their names as their lives change … evolve?” she asked.
Alan nodded.
“And how we earn new names?” she continued. “Well, you ARE ‘Standing Wolf.’”
She nodded toward the report.
Toward the growing collection of highlighted telemetry.
Toward the expression currently occupying his face.
“There WILL always be one more horizon … one more hill to cross over … one more tree to look behind.”
The she smiled lovingly.
“You are the wolf who refuses to lay down for those reasons,” she said.
“And the wolf just found the next trail.”
Alan groaned immediately.
Lyara laughed.
The sound filled the cottage with warmth.
Then she leaned down and kissed the top of his head.
“Standing Wolf,” she whispered into his ear.
The gesture was affectionate.
Familiar.
And just irritating enough to be satisfying.
“You know,” she said, “I believe this officially answers our conversation from twenty minutes ago.”
Alan frowned.
“What conversation?”
Lyara pointed toward the report.
Toward the mystery.
Toward the future already reaching for him from somewhere beyond the stars.
Then she smiled.
The kind of smile that said she had known the answer all along.
“How could you ever say no to the Sam Houston?”
Outside, rain continued falling across the highlands of Nýr Norðhavn.
Inside, the fire burned steadily within the hearth.
The cottage still offered peace.
The Silver Tide still drifted across the heavens.
The quiet life still waited for him if he wanted it.
But somewhere beyond the horizon a mystery had just found the one man incapable of ignoring it.
And for the first time since Ahlayna’s funeral, Alan Sollace realized he was no longer thinking about retirement.
