She Runs a Tight Ship

"Hey! You're leaning on the cortisol pump!" The intern nearly drops his coffee–a big no-no in its own right–as he jerks upright off the stability lever, now sitting at 29 mcg/dL. Captain Bowers rushes to the scene to readjust the stability lever back to 7 mcg/dL.

"Someone check the adrenaline and vasopressin, catecholamines and thyroid on the other side of the bridge." She steps to the offending intern, terrifyingly close and with a finger on his chest. "You. Out. Do not come back," she commands. He salutes, awkward and lacking the discipline of an officer, and high-tails it out of her sight.

"I have half the mind to kick him to the salivary glands," she spouts under her breath. "What was he even doing here? Nobody from the External Comms department needs to be here; especially not an intern…"

She calls to the Executive Parliamentarian, a Warrant Officer who presides over systematic behaviors: "E.P., initiate Operation 5S. Let's get this broad under control." The officer complies, ducking to his station to enter the launch code.

Back on the observation deck the crew can see the ship's hand splayed wide in preparation. Adreno-cortisol levels are still too high at 20 mcg/dL, despite the captain's best efforts to cull the damage. All she can do is wait as Operation 5S executes and hope that everything goes back to normal functioning quickly.

The ship's phalanges fold slowly, one by one. Since the direct experiences are blocked here in order to reduce work interruptions, the central crew is not responsible for the day-to-day sensory micro-input like the ship's cotton coverings layered on the hull. Instead, that data is reviewed and monitored in respective control rooms and only reported to the captain should urgent action become necessary. 

This situation is a bit different in that the emergency began inside the captain's direct realm rather than being an outside incident reported to her.

Yeah, that guy's toast. He may even end up breaking down a piece of it and riding it all the way to the poop deck, actually.

The received data from Operation 5S comes through as a banner of orange text running along the bottom of the observation panels, listing the most acute sensory experience first.

SCENT: MUD

TASTE: [MEMORY -00:34:26] LONDON FOG TEA LATTE

SOUND: RAIN, STEADY

TOUCH: GLOVES, FLEECE

SIGHT: LEAVES, WET, RED

"Report status of the pituitary-adrenal axis," the Captain says firmly.

"P-A axis is still inflamed, Captain," replies a crewman. "Norepinephrine, serotonin, and acetylcholine have effectively plugged the corticotrophin-releasing factor. All other stress-response processes are slowing but still very much active."

"Physiological response?"

The crewman reviews data incoming from the Homeostasis operating room. "It looks like the respiration is smoothing out and we're getting back to the ideal range of blood-oxygen saturation. Peristalsis has resumed, though just barely, and the irises are returning to basal dilation."

The captain's only response is a terse nod before turning away from the observation panels, hands clasped neatly behind her back. No one on the crew has ever seen so much as a hair out of place on her head, and this snafu has not made an exception.

It takes serious discipline to successfully run a ship like this. She came in a few years ago with a new system update called Lamictal. Originally she was a temporary placement to get some unexpected convulsive episodes under control, but later came back as an experimental co-captain with another, Captain Hiller. After finding out that Hiller was sabotaging the ship, there was an additional Lamictal update that cleaned out the garbage, reinstated the previous hierarchy, and established Bowers as the sole executive of the crew.

The data banner turns yellow, meaning that Operation 5S has run its course but the ship is still moderately dysregulated. The next step must be decided swiftly and carefully.

She strides to the desk of the E.P., Officer P. Thomas, reading the data against the actionable operations on his screen. Pointing to a box on the screen, "This one," she commands.

"Yes, Captain. Initiating isolation response." Thomas diligently codes the direction to open the ship's "Cycle" playlist on Spotify and place its AirPods appropriately before sending it down the wire to the RH control room to be executed.

SOUND: CRADLES, SUB URBAN; RAIN, STEADY

TOUCH: AIRPODS CASE, COLD, PLASTIC

SIGHT: FEET, SELF; HANDS, SELF; PUDDLES, WET

Though only showing the most prevalent data at this time, the banner is still running yellow. This will likely be the case through at least four more songs. However, there is good news - the ship is walking again, in the direction of its carrier vehicle.

"Captain, the ship is aligning its gait with the song, as expected," reports another crewmember. This is Chief Officer R. Johnston, whose tenure with the ship exceeds any other. She has performed many a task here but, due to a potential conflict of interest, has never been eligible to execute system updates and retired from the E.P. position years ago. Many of the protocols she coded into the ship's original operating system stand firm and she is one of the most reliable repair engineers on staff - sometimes, even the captain defers to her guidance.

Captain Bowers paces around the bridge, stopping at each control station to review updates in the ship's functioning. Cortisol is down to 12 mcg/dL, which is technically within the range of safety for this year and model of ship, but she maintains a standard of 7 mcg/dL. She worked hard to set this standard over the last few years and she isn't about to let it slide because of an incompetent intern that wasn't even in the right area of the ship.

SOUND: SUNKILLER, SPIRITBOX; RAIN, STEADY

TOUCH: CAR DOOR, METAL, COLD, WET; LEATHER, COLD

SIGHT: SPEEDOMETER, STATIONARY

Now that the ship is docked in its carrier vehicle the isolation response has to adjust. AirPods must be stored, iPhone must be connected to the vehicle, and the ship must execute necessary actions to continue the music. These are all automated steps built into the initial I.R. code written by Officer Thomas earlier.

"The ship is further righting itself, Captain. It's taken back some cognition control and is initiating 'Drive' mode."

"Wait - it's not ready. Interrupt the action immediately," Bowers commands, controlled urgency coating her words.

"Yes, Captain."

SOUND: WINDSHIELD WIPERS, SQUEAKY; SUNKILLER, SPIRITBOX; RAIN, STEADY

TOUCH: LEATHER, WARMING

SIGHT: !!WARNING!! SENSE IMPAIRED; TEARS OBSCURING VISION

The banner is running orange again, but this is not an unexpected occurrence. It's typical that a P-A axis incident will come with echo responses even after taking care to regulate the system.

The ship folds into itself, leaning the head onto the steering wheel.

SOUND: WINDSHIELD WIPERS, SQUEAKY; WITHOUT ME, WIND WALKERS; SOBBING, SUBSTANTIAL, SELF; RAIN, STEADY

TOUCH: LEATHER, WARM; STEERING WHEEL, COLD; TEARS, HOT, WET

SIGHT: !!WARNING!! SENSE IMPAIRED; TEARS OBSCURING VISION; EYELIDS CLOSED

Despite the ship itself going dark, there's still plenty of data to review as far as the crew is concerned. The Homeostasis O.R. reports decreased blood-oxygen saturation again as the ship's cry response runs.

"Orders, Captain?"

"Let it cry. Give it ten minutes and if the hormones haven't settled by then we'll reconsider and adjust the course of action."

"Yes, Captain."

-----

Seven minutes and forty-two seconds have elapsed, and the ship has remained stable in its dysregulated state.

The captain's posture is, somehow, even straighter than it was before. Her fingers grip the railing that separates the bridge proper from the more lax observation deck. White-knuckled and stiff, the captain still gives no indication that anything is out of range for recon; her behavior is more a show of anger - still directed at that stupid E.C. intern - than anxiety.

The crew has been silent behind her. The beeping of monitors, rapid tapping of keyboards as officers check and re-check data before coding various reaction responses and readying them for deployment upon the captain's order.

Johnston approaches the railing. "Captain," she begins. "With all due respect, ma'am, may I offer a suggestion?"

Bowers doesn't blink, eyes focused on the sensory banner.

SOUND: WINDSHIELD WIPERS, SQUEAKY; NEON GRAVESTONES, TWENTY ONE PILOTS; CRYING, SOFT, SELF; RAIN, STEADY

TOUCH: LEATHER, WARM; STEERING WHEEL, MODERATE TEMP, HARD; TEARS, HOT, DRYING, WET; SNOT, COLD, STICKY

TASTE: TEARS, SALTY; SNOT, SALTY, REVOLTING

SIGHT: !!WARNING!! SENSE IMPAIRED; TEARS OBSCURING VISION; EYELIDS PARTIALLY CLOSED

"What is your suggestion, Chief Officer?"

"We keep a tube of eucalyptus-spearmint hull lubricant in the center console of the carrier. Many years ago, I programmed the ship to self-soothe by massaging that into its hands. If you pair that with an exaggerated inhale/exhale action on repeat, you may be able to trigger core memory recall. In my experience, and yours as well I'm sure, this is a reliable way to jar the ship's dysregulated stability and clear up the path to standard behavior."

The captain considers this plan for a moment, eyes narrowing only the slightest bit.

If Johnston is nervous, she sure as hell doesn't show it. A confident and proud officer knows when her input is valued and how to move on gracefully when it is not.

"Okay, I approve. Let's give that a go." The captain turns around, eyeing Officer Thomas at his station on the bridge.

"Officer Johnston, ensure that Officer Thomas has the correct information. Once that plan is airtight I want it executed, ASAP." Both crewmembers salute, crisp and perfectly in time, then get to work.

Captain Bowers faces the observation panels once more, irked but unsurprised that the sensory banner has barely changed. The hue of the text is still bright orange, leaning into a territory of offensively citrus.

"We should see action any minute now, Captain..." Officer Johnston trails off as the ship straightens out, reaches into the compartment, and begins to massage the cold, creamy aromatherapeutic hull lubricant on its hands.

The ribs expand, diaphragm contracting low, and air whooshes into the ship's lungs, carrying in a healthy volume of oxygen. Respiration occurs at an exaggerated capacity. Exhale. The excess carbon dioxide is expelled.

SCENT: LOTION, EUCALYPTUS-SPEARMINT

SOUND: WINDSHIELD WIPERS, SQUEAKY; BREATHING, CONTROLLED, SELF; I DON'T WANNA BE SAD, SIMPLE PLAN; RAIN, STEADY

TOUCH: LEATHER, WARM; LOTION, MOISTURIZING

TASTE: TEARS, SALTY

SIGHT: HANDS, SELF-MASSAGING; CAR INTERIOR, DIM

"Captain, we're at 8 mcg/dL for cortisol," an officer reports from his station. "In general the P-A axis is steadily approaching standard stability."

"Good," she responds, showing no emotion in her voice.

Officer Johnston sees her face, though, and she's smiling. Barely.

"How did you know that would work as well as it did?" the captain asks.

The Chief Officer, whose short hair is beginning to gray, responds: "I built her. I've been around for every Captain she's had, every system update, every new directive and collaboration. No matter what, Captain," she says with a smile, "she'll always be my baby."