“I want it to stop hurting this world,” I say quietly.
The ship hums in response. Low and receptive.
“And I want it to survive,” I continue. “Not as a weapon or a ghost, but as what Maddy intended. A witness. A safeguard.”
Rakkh’s hand slides over mine on the console, huge, cool, steady. He doesn’t press any buttons. He doesn’t guide. He gives me his support and confidence.
“Then do it,” he says softly. “And whatever follows… I am with you.”
Something inside me breaks open. It’s not fear, but relief. A knowing that I’m not alone in this moment. In this decision. I straighten, draw a slow breath, and place my palm flat against the console.
“I authorize ORBITAL RECOVERY under preservation protocols,” I say. “Cease planetary discharge. No defensive engagement unless directly attacked.”
The system pauses. For the longest heartbeat of my life. Then?—
AUTHORIZATION ACCEPTED.
ANCHOR CONFIRMED.
The ship hums as purpose snaps into place after uncertainty. Outside, far beyond this sealed chamber, the desert will finallystop getting worse. And somewhere, deep within the hull, systems that have waited far too long begin a wake cycle.
I exhale, shaking. Rakkh pulls me against his chest, not caring who sees, not hiding the way his arms close around me like he’s been holding himself apart just to do this.
“We did it,” I whisper.
“Yes,” he murmurs against my hair. “And now the universe will answer.”
I don’t know yet what that answer will be, but for the first time since the ship chose me—I don’t feel like I’m facing it alone.
The ship does not lurch or shudder when the engines begin their wake cycle. It aligns. The change is subtle but absolute, like a muscle finally engaging after years of compensating the wrong way. The hum shifts into something steadier, cleaner, and the faint pressure behind my eyes releases all at once. I stagger, more from the sudden absence than anything else.
Rakkh tightens his hold, anchoring me without a word. His chest is solid at my back, his breath warm against my temple.
“You’re here,” he murmurs, as if confirming it for himself.
“I’m here,” I answer, and for the first time since we entered the ship, I believe it.
The interface continues to populate, but it no longer presses itself into my awareness. Information scrolls in orderly columns now, readable if I want it, ignorable if I don’t. That alone tells me everything I need to know.
Travnyk exhales slowly. “Environmental discharge has ceased.”
Tomas blinks. “Just like that?”
I nod. “It’s rerouting internal containment. Everything that was bleeding outward is being stabilized for transit.”
“And the desert?” he asks, fear threading his voice.
“It won’t heal overnight,” I say gently. “But it will stop getting worse.”
That feels like a miracle all by itself.
The chamber’s light softens, no longer converging on me alone. For the first time, the ship seems to acknowledge all of us as present, not tolerated variables. The walls subtly adjust their illumination, compensating for Rakkh’s height, Travnyk’s bulk, and Tomas’s fragile human limits.
Rakkh notices. Of course he does.
“It is no longer prioritizing you above all else,” he says quietly.
“No,” I agree. “It doesn’t need to anymore.”
