The Lost Soldier

 

The first thing she noticed was the silence.

Well, not true silence. There was a hum a steady, rhythmic thrumming that vibrated through the floor plates. But it was wrong. It was too smooth. It lacked the throaty, aggressive growl of a drive core pushing dark energy. And the lights were wrong, too. Even behind her closed eyelids, the light was a sterile, piercing white, not the comforting amber and steel-blue she was used to. She didn't know her name. She didn't know where she was. But as she opened her eyes and saw a woman in a white uniform reaching for her with a hypospray, her body moved before her brain could catch up. She grabbed the woman’s wrist gently, but with the immovable certainty of a hydraulic press and twisted just enough to immobilize.

"I wouldn't," she rasped. Her voice was dry, like she’d been swallowing dust for a week.

"Nurse Chapel!" A man’s voice. Deep, authoritative, but not aggressive.

The woman on the bed sat up, releasing the nurse. Her head was pounding with a rhythm that felt electric, a low buzz behind her eyes. She looked at her hands. They were scarred. Rough. Hands that broke things.

"Where am I?" she asked, scanning the room. It was too bright. Too clean. The walls were curved white panels. The lights were piercing. It didn't look like... home. Wherever home was.

"You're in Sickbay," the man said, stepping forward with his hands raised to show they were empty. He wore a blue tunic with black trim. "On the USS Enterprise. I’m Doctor M’Benga. You’ve been unconscious for six hours."

She swung her legs off the bed. She was wearing a shimmering silver tunic that felt like silk. It made her feel naked.

"My clothes," she said, standing up. The floor was cold. "I wasn't wearing this."

"No," M'Benga said carefully. "You weren't. You were wearing... well, we're not quite sure what you were wearing. But it’s heavy."

Five Minutes Later

Captain Christopher Pike walked into Sickbay with that easy, rolling stride that usually calmed panicked diplomats. He found his medical staff standing by the wall, looking fascinated but wary. In the centre of the room, the stranger was standing over a pile of equipment that had been laid out on a diagnostic table. She was tall. She had red hair cut in a severe bob and eyes that looked like they were assessing structural weaknesses in the bulkhead. She was running her hand over a piece of matte-black plating.

"Captain on deck," M'Benga noted.

The woman looked up. She didn't salute, but she straightened her spine in a way that screamed 'military'.

"I'm Captain Pike," he said, offering a smile. "Welcome aboard."

She looked at him, then back at the black armour on the table. "This is yours?" she asked.

"No," Pike said. "It's yours. We found you in a corridor near Engineering. You were... fully dressed for a war we didn't know we were fighting."

She picked up a helmet. It was sleek, breathing apparatus integrated, glowing with a faint red light at the side. She turned it over in her hands. It felt right. It felt like a second skin.

"I don't know what this is," she whispered, a crack in her composure. "I know how to put it on. My hands know where the seals are. I know that if I press this catch, the ceramic plating unlocks." She demonstrated, the armour clicking open with a mechanical hiss. "But I don't know who wore it."

Spock stepped out from the lab office, holding a scanner. "An interesting dilemma. Your physiology suggests a human baseline, yet there are significant cybernetic augmentations woven into your skeletal structure. And your blood contains high concentrations of an element that does not appear on the periodic table."

The woman looked at Spock. Her eyes widened slightly at the ears, but she didn't recoil. She just analyzed. "Alien," she stated. It wasn't a question.

"Vulcan," Spock corrected. "I am Commander Spock."

She looked down at the chest piece of the armour. There were white letters painted on the carbon fiber.

N7.

And below that, on a dog tag resting on the table: SHEPARD.

"Shepard," she read aloud. The word tasted familiar. "Is that... is that me?"

"We assume so," Pike said gently. "Does it ring a bell?"

"No." She picked up a heavy, collapsible rifle from the table. La'an Noonien-Singh, the Chief of Security, instantly stepped forward, hand on her phaser. "Careful."

The woman, Shepard, didn't point the weapon. She just held it. Her thumb flicked a safety switch that La'an hadn't even noticed. "Thermal clip port," Shepard muttered. "Mass accelerator... foldable stock." She looked up, her eyes haunted. "I know this gun. I know that if I pull this trigger, it accelerates a metal shard to relativistic speeds. I know it kicks up and to the right."

She set the gun down with a clatter. She looked sick.

"I know how to kill people," she said, her voice quiet. "I know how to kill a lot of people. But I don't remember my mother’s name."

Pike stepped closer, ignoring La'an’s warning glance. "Amnesia can be a side effect of trauma, or... whatever method brought you here. Our sensors didn't pick up a transport beam. It’s like you just popped into existence."

Shepard rubbed her temple. The buzzing was getting louder. A blue flare sparked around her fingers—dark energy crackling like static electricity.

M'Benga jumped back. "Whoa! Readings just spiked. Dark energy emissions."

Shepard stared at her hand, watching the blue aura warp the air. "Biotics," she said. The word fell out of her mouth before she could think about it. "I'm a... Biotic?"

"Is that a species?" Pike asked.

"No," Shepard said, clutching her head as a migraine slammed into her. "It’s... an implant. An amp. L5n..." She groaned. "Why do I know tech specs but not my own birthday?"

"Muscle memory remains even when episodic memory fails," Spock observed. "You are clearly a soldier. High rank, judging by the quality of this equipment."

"N7," Shepard said, tracing the logo again. "It means... Special Forces. Systems Alliance." She looked up, desperate. "Does that mean anything to you? The Alliance?"

Pike exchanged a look with Spock. "I’m afraid not. We represent the United Federation of Planets."

Shepard slumped against the bio-bed. "Great. So I'm a super-soldier with a gun that shoots sand at lightspeed, glowing magic hands, and no idea what planet I'm on."

"You're on a starship," Pike corrected. He leaned against the table, crossing his arms. "And you look like you need a friend more than you need a interrogation. Tell you what, Shepard... let's get you something to eat. You'd be amazed what memory comes back over a good meal."

Shepard looked at the armour one last time. It looked lonely on the table. A shell without a ghost.

"Can I..." She hesitated. "Can I keep the pistol? Just the small one."

La'an scoffed. "Absolutely not."

Shepard looked at La'an. She assessed the Security Chief’s stance, her balance, the phaser on her hip. "I could take yours before you cleared leather," Shepard said, matter-of-factly. "I just feel... naked without it."

Pike laughed, breaking the tension. "La'an is the best security chief in the fleet, Shepard. I wouldn't bet against her. But... compromise." He picked up the heavy pistol, ejected the thermal clip and placed it with the rifle, and handed the empty weapon to Shepard. "A paperweight. Until we figure out who you are."

Shepard took the gun. The weight of it in her hand instantly relaxed her shoulders. The blue flaring in her eyes dimmed.

"Thank you, Captain," she said.

"Don't mention it," Pike smiled. "Now, Spock, see if you can figure out why her armour has a kinetic barrier generator that defies the laws of thermodynamics. Shepard, you're with me. It’s spaghetti night."

Shepard holstered the empty gun onto the silk pants of the medical uniform—it held surprisingly well—and followed him.

"Spaghetti?" she asked. "Is that a code?"

"No," Pike said. "It's pasta. And trust me, it’s the one thing in the universe that makes sense."

As they left, Spock picked up the helmet again.

"Fascinating," the Vulcan murmured. "Doctor, this helmet contains an audio file queued to play."

"What is it?" M'Benga asked.

Spock pressed a button on the side. A deep, synthesized voice echoed through the quiet sickbay.

"Assuming direct control."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "Ominous."

Spaghetti, Starships, and Suddenly, Jane

Captain Pike's quarters were spacious, warm, and smelled wonderfully of garlic, basil, and impending culinary chaos. It was a stark contrast to the sterile, high-tension atmosphere of the Sickbay. Pike, wearing a chef’s apron over his yellow tunic, was stirring a massive pot of tomato sauce with the intensity of a man diffusing a plasma bomb. Commander Una Chin-Riley, ever practical, was meticulously folding napkins on the small dining table while La'an Noonien-Singh, looking deeply uncomfortable but trying to be helpful, was placing forks with unnecessary precision. Dr. M’Benga sat at the counter, sipping a warm beverage, looking relieved to be away from bio-scanners.

Jane Shepard—the woman who didn't know her own name but knew the killing radius of a particle beam—was perched on a stool, watching Pike. She still wore the silver medical tunic, and the empty, black mass accelerator pistol was still tucked into her waistband, a strange comfort.

"So, Commander," Pike said, not looking away from the bubbling sauce. He pointed with a wooden spoon. "You're saying that you woke up, your head was pounding, and you felt an aggressive urge to locate a heavy piece of hardware?"

"Yes, Captain," Shepard confirmed. She leaned her elbow on the counter. "Aggressive is the right word. It was a compulsion. Like if I didn't find my rifle, something bad would happen."

"And that's why you broke the restraint?" M'Benga asked, amusement glinting in his eyes.

"I didn't mean to break it," Shepard said, genuinely embarrassed. "I just... flexed. Sorry, Doctor."

Pike chuckled. "Don't worry about it. Sickbay equipment is surprisingly durable. Here’s my theory, Commander. The amnesia is confusing your muscle memory. Your body, your training, thinks you are in a combat or capture scenario, and it's trying to execute an escape plan. The gear is your security blanket."

"A security blanket that can pierce a starship hull," La'an muttered from the table.

"It is quite impressive," Una conceded. "You mentioned an 'Alliance.' No memory of its function?"

Shepard shook her head. "It feels right. Military. Human, mostly. But nothing specific. It’s a blank wall, Una."

Pike turned, leaning against the counter, a dramatic flourish with the wooden spoon. "Look, I know waiting is tough. But we have Chief Engineer Pelia and Commander Spock analyzing your armor. They'll find something. In the meantime, you are not going to sit there and brood." He thrust the large wooden spoon toward her. "Take this. Taste the sauce. Tell me if it needs more oregano."

Shepard stared at the spoon. Her hand, the one that had only hours ago expertly dismantled a security restraint, hesitated.

"I... I don't know how to cook," she confessed, her voice barely a whisper.

"Nonsense. If you can take apart a relativistic cannon, you can stir a pot," Pike insisted, his eyes warm and challenging. "Come on. Culinary integration. It’s good for the soul."

With a sigh of deep reluctance, Shepard slid off the stool and took the spoon. She dipped it into the thick, aromatic sauce. The smell was intense. It was... real. She blew on the spoon, then tentatively tasted it.

Her eyes widened slightly. "It's... good."

"Just 'good'?" Pike teased.

"It’s excellent," she corrected. She paused, tilting her head. "But it needs more... heat. Not spice. Complexity. Like a slow burn. Where’s the garlic powder?"

Pike grinned, pointing to a spice rack. "M'Benga, I think we have a convert."

Shepard found the jar, sniffed it, and sprinkled a dash into the simmering pot, stirring with a methodical circular motion. It was the first truly non-violent, non-combat-related thing she had done since waking up. And it felt... grounding. Just as Una and La'an were finishing the place settings, the doorbell chimed. Pike waved the spoon at the door. "That’ll be Uhura. Come in!"

Ensign Nyota Uhura entered, beaming. In her arms, she carried a freshly folded set of Starfleet-issue, off-duty casual wear—a soft, grey jumpsuit.

"Captain," Uhura chirped. "I brought the clothes you requested for our guest. Hello, everyone! And you must be the mystery woman everyone is talking about!"

Uhura walked right up to Shepard with zero fear and extended her hand. "Nyota Uhura. Communications. It's truly incredible what you were wearing. Spock is thrilled, but everyone else is terrified."

Shepard’s lips quirked into the ghost of a smile as she shook the young Ensign’s hand. "Shepard. Allegedly."

Uhura leaned in conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Listen, I didn't want to bring this up in front of the boys, but the Sickbay report mentioned your armour was covering some... undergarments. Don't worry, I included them. They're clean, pressed, and waiting for you. Can't have a girl going commando on the flagship."

The sheer, unexpected kindness—the practical empathy of including something so mundane and personal after the shock of waking up in a strange place—hit Shepard harder than any biotics blast. Her fragile smile deepened, becoming genuine for a fleeting second.

"Thank you, Uhura. That... that was very thoughtful of you."

"Of course! We take care of our own, Commander," Uhura said with a warm shrug.

Pike pointed a large, dripping wooden spoon toward a door on the far wall. "Shepard, the suit is clean, the noodles are almost done, and my sauce needs a break from your expert tinkering. The fresher is through there. Get changed, but don't take too long. You're starving, even if you don't remember it."

Shepard nodded, taking the folded grey suit and the bundled undergarments from Uhura. She started toward the bedroom, her gait still that stiff, measured walk of a trained soldier.

She had only taken three steps when she stopped dead. Her stance became instantly rigid. Her head snapped up, her eyes wide and fixed on nothing in particular. The empty pistol felt heavy in her hand.

"Jane," she said. The sound was soft, tentative, yet ringing with sudden certainty.

Everyone in the room froze.

La'an was the first to react, spinning around from the table. "What was that?" she demanded, instinctively scanning for a threat.

But everyone was looking at Shepard, she slowly turned her head, her intensely green eyes locking onto Pike. A faint, almost painful smile stretched across her lips.

"My name," she said, her voice clear and strong now. "My name is Jane."

She gave Pike a lopsided, triumphant grin—the grin of a soldier who had just won a difficult battle against herself. She turned and walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind her with a quiet click.

Pike looked at the others, his eyes shining. "Well. It's a start."

"Indeed, Captain," Spock’s voice stated calmly from the comms, startling everyone. "I have achieved initial success in accessing a data log from Commander 'Jane' Shepard's omni-tool. Shall I present my findings?"

Pike grabbed the communication panel. "Hold that thought, Spock! Give us five minutes to get organized. Jane just found her name, and the sauce is perfect. We'll brief in my quarters in twenty."