Shae held the crewman down for one more measured second.
Not out of anger.
Not out of ego.
Just long enough to make a point that needed no further explanation.
Then she released him.
Cleanly.
Controlled.
She stepped back as he pushed himself upright, adjusting his uniform with sharp, embarrassed movements.
A couple of nearby crew members suddenly found their trays very interesting.
The man rolled his shoulder like he could shake off what had just happened.
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so only she could hear.
“This isn’t over.” Shae blinked once.
Then—slowly—she exhaled through her nose.
Not quite a sigh.
More like disappointment dressed up as patience.
“Okay,” she said flatly.
It wasn’t a challenge.
It wasn’t fear.
It was dismissal.
That seemed to bother him more than anything else.
He stared at her for a beat longer, as if waiting for a reaction that would justify his importance in the situation.
Shae had already turned away.
She picked up her tray again and walked past him without another glance, as if he had already been filed away in her mind as irrelevant.
Behind her, he muttered something under his breath and finally stepped aside.
Shae didn’t react.
Didn’t slow.
Didn’t look back.
The mess hall felt different now.
Not louder or quieter—just shifted.
Conversations resumed, but not with the same ease as before.
Eyes followed her in a way that was harder to ignore than outright staring.
Whispers traveled faster than footsteps.
“That’s the new major… Carter.” “She moved like that on her first day?” “Did you see how she controlled him?” “Rumor is she’s tactical ops.” “No, I heard she’s special forces.” “She’s way more than that.” And beneath it all—something else.
Not just interest in her looks.
Recognition of skill.
Of danger.
Of someone who didn’t belong in the category people had tried to place her in.
Shae ignored all of it.
She found an empty table near the edge of the mess hall—close enough to observe, far enough to be left alone if people respected unspoken rules.
She sat down, set her tray neatly in front of her, and began eating as if nothing had happened.
No satisfaction.
No irritation.
Just focus.
A few crew members passed by more slowly than necessary.
One or two considered sitting nearby, then thought better of it.
Shae noticed.
Didn’t care.
She ate methodically, eyes occasionally scanning the room out of habit rather than interest.
The ship’s rhythm, its people, its structure—it was all data.
Nothing more.
Not yet.
When she finished, she stood, returned her tray, and walked out without hesitation.
The deck was quieter.
More functional.
More honest.
Shae moved through it like she belonged there more than she belonged anywhere else on the ship, despite it being her first day.
Technicians glanced up as she passed.
An officer near a console paused mid-report.
She approached the duty station directly.
“Is there any work I can help with?” she asked.
The petty officer behind the console blinked, clearly not expecting that question from a new transfer on day one.
“Uh—” he glanced at her rank tabs, then at the schedule board.
“You just came aboard, Major.” Shae nodded once.
“I know.” A pause.
Then she added, tone even, “I don’t like waiting idle.” That earned a different kind of attention.
The petty officer hesitated, then tapped a console.
“Well… we’ve got a backlog of tactical simulation reviews from last night’s drills.
Command hasn’t cleared them yet.
You could—” “Send them,” Shae said immediately.
Another pause.
Then a faint, reluctant smile from the petty officer as he forwarded the data.
Shae stepped closer to the console, already reading before it fully loaded.
Behind her, the ship continued to move.
And somewhere above, unseen, Colonel Cassandra Blackwell—if she had been watching—would have found exactly what she expected.
Not a passenger.
Not a problem.
But something that immediately started making herself useful.