Travnyk’s head tilts. “Then what?”
“A strike,” I answer, the logic snapping into place with sick certainty. “Not on purpose—maybe not. But a shock big enough to scramble orbital systems.”
Tomas’s brow furrows. “You mean the bomb.”
“I mean the kind of blast that throws an electromagnetic pulse,” I say. “If the ship was low enough in orbit when it happened… it could’ve taken a hit. Guidance lost. Engines forced into shutdown. Systems defaulting to survival mode in the wrong place.”
Tomas goes pale. “So we?—”
“We might have,” I cut in. “Or our war did. Either way, it’s been bleeding into the land ever since.”
Silence stretches thick with implication. Outside this chamber, beyond layers of metal and sand, the plants are dying. Creatures are sickening. The desert is changing, slowly but inexorably, because a machine never meant to touch soil is doing exactly what it was built to do: survive.
“I think,” I say quietly, “that if we leave it here, it will kill Tajss eventually.”
Rakkh doesn’t argue.
He doesn’t soften it or try to shield me from the weight of saying it out loud. He turns toward me fully now, angling his bodyuntil I’m no longer half-behind him, no longer protected from something—but protected with him.
“And if you shut it down?” he asks.
My chest tightens.
“I don’t know what would happen,” I admit. “It’s been containing energy, matter, data—everything—for centuries. If I disrupt it incorrectly…”
“Catastrophic release,” Travnyk says.
“Yes.”
Tomas closes his eyes. “Cool. Love those options.”
I almost smile. Almost. Rakkh studies my face, eyes molten and intent.
“You said before that it does not want authorization.” I nod. “It wants correction,” he continues. “That implies guidance. A path forward that does not violate its core directive.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“And you are the only one it recognizes as capable of providing that.”
The truth of it lands heavy and undeniable.
“Yes.”
The ship hums softly at that—barely audible, but there. An acknowledgment. Rakkh exhales slowly through his teeth, then does something that makes my breath hitch. He steps closer.
Not crowding me, though he is definitely towering. He lowers his head so his gaze meets mine more evenly, wings drawn intight behind him. His presence fills the space in a way that feels deliberate and intimate all at once.
“You are not doing this alone,” he says.
It isn’t a question. I swallow.
“Rakkh—”
“I know what you will say,” he cuts in gently. “That this is not my decision. That the ship does not recognize me. That I might complicate things.” He isn’t wrong. That’s what makes it hurt. “But understand this,” he continues, voice low and steady. “I am choosing you anyway.”
The words hit harder than any declaration I’ve ever heard. Choosing. Not duty. Not command. Not instinct dressed up as fate. Choice. My throat tightens painfully.
“And if the ship decides you are a variable it cannot tolerate?” I ask softly.
