Jumble of Memories

Posted on Sat Apr 4th, 2026 @ 3:06pm by Lieutenant JG Tuhjer Mil

886 words; about a 4 minute read

Mission: Flight Of The Valkyries
Location: Jeffries Tube, USS Tokyo
Timeline: March 15th, 2397 - 10:30

In the dim, amber glow of a Jeffries tube deep within the USS Tokyo, Tuhjer crawled on hands and knees toward a junction point, the metal grating beneath him vibrating faintly with the steady heartbeat of the ship. He hadn’t been aboard long and so to his disappointment, he was still stuck on maintenance duty. Not diagnostics on the bridge. Not warp field tuning in Main Engineering. Certainly nothing that resembled the excitement he’d imagined when he’d accepted the posting. No, he was elbow‑deep in the ship’s innards, crawling through cramped access spaces that smelled faintly of high energised particles, and recycled air.

The tools on his belt clattered with every movement, tapping against the cold plating like impatient fingers. At least the knee pads he’d replicated before boarding were earning their keep. He’d suspected he’d be assigned to maintenance for a while—new officers always were—and he’d done what he could to make life in the ship’s bowels tolerable. A few creature comforts, a few practical adjustments, and a quiet acceptance that this was where he’d be spending most of his early days aboard.

Reaching the junction, he braced himself and swung down the ladder to the level below. The metal rungs were slick from condensation, and he descended carefully, boots clanging softly. He pulled himself into the next section of the tube, shoulders brushing the walls, and continued forward until he reached the panel he’d been hunting for. After loosening the fasteners, he eased the cover free and set it beside him with a soft clunk.

With a tricorder in one hand and an adjustment tool in the other, he began working through the junction’s diagnostics. The readings flickered across the small display, each one demanding attention. He compared them to the values in the guide, making careful corrections where needed, methodically bringing the system back into alignment. It was tedious work, but there was a rhythm to it—almost meditative, if he let himself sink into it.

The panel emitted a rhythmic beeping, almost musical in its repetition. Tuhjer leaned back slightly, letting the sound wash over him. The tones were steady, predictable, and oddly soothing. His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to memories of his third host, Lerani—the poet, the musician, the dreamer. She had once composed a short piece with a rhythm uncannily similar to the tones pulsing from this junction. A simple melody, played on a hand‑carved Trill flute, meant to evoke the feeling of rain striking the stone paths of Mak’ala. He could almost hear it now, layered over the mechanical beeps, transforming the cramped tube into something gentler.

For a moment, he let himself sink into the memory. He could feel Lerani’s hands guiding his—her—fingers along the flute’s surface, could hear her soft laughter when a note squeaked or wavered. The memory was warm, comforting, and achingly distant.

A sudden blare of a klaxon snapped him back to the present.

“Unable to accept correction. Please recheck and retry.”

The mechanical voice cut through the tube, jarring and insistent, dragging him fully out of his daydream. The sound reverberated off the metal walls, making the confined space feel even smaller.

He exhaled sharply. “Alright, alright, I hear you.”

He tapped at his tricorder, running a diagnostic sweep to see why the correction had failed. The display scrolled rapidly, lines of data cascading until—there. “Ah‑ha,” he muttered, the answer lighting up on the screen. A simple misalignment. Annoying, but easy enough to fix.

He reached into the open panel, fingers brushing warm circuitry, and pulled two connection cables free. They resisted slightly—everything in these tubes seemed to—but he coaxed them loose and swapped their positions with practiced ease. His hands moved automatically, guided by training, instinct, and the faint echo of hosts who had done similar work in centuries past.

Reinitialising the correction, he waited. The system hummed, lights flickering in a brief, uncertain dance. Then a pleasant confirmation tone chimed, followed by a soft green glow from the indicator light.

“Much better,” he said under his breath, allowing himself a small smile.

He clipped his tools back onto his belt, resealed the panel, and sat back on his heels for a moment. The tube stretched ahead of him, a seemingly endless corridor of conduits, junctions, and access points. Somewhere far above, the ship’s crew went about their duties—piloting, analysing, commanding—while he crawled through the arteries that kept everything running. It wasn’t glamorous, but it mattered. And maybe, he reminded himself, this was where real engineering began: in the quiet, unseen spaces where the ship whispered its needs.

With a resigned sigh, he dropped back to his hands and knees and crawled on toward his next point of call. The metal was cold beneath him, the air still, but he moved with renewed purpose. Every correction, every adjustment, every tiny improvement kept the Tokyo alive and thriving. And perhaps, in time, he’d earn his way out of the tubes and into the heart of the ship.

For now, though, he crawled forward, the steady hum of the Tokyo surrounding him like a familiar, patient companion.


Lieutenant JG Tuhjer Mil
Engineer
USS Tokyo

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