“And the rest?”
She swallows. “It accelerates.”
There it is. Every adjustment buys time by stealing it from somewhere else. The ship is not malfunctioning—it is triaging, and it does not value life the way we do. Travnyk straightens, folding his arms.
“This vessel was built to outlast crises, not prevent them.”
“To endure war,” I say.
“Yes.”
“And war is still its reference frame,” Lia whispers.
The hum shifts, subtle and deeper. The seams along the walls brighten a fraction, then settle again. It’s not reacting, it is logging and compensating.
“You feel that?” I ask her.
She nods. “It’s tracking consequences.”
“Good,” I say coldly. “Then let it track this.”
I step back just enough to look at all of them.
“We do not rush,” I say. “But we do not wait either.”
Travnyk inclines his head. “Agreed.”
Tomas snorts weakly. “Cool. Love a good narrow window.”
I crouch in front of him, meeting his eyes. “You stay alive. That is your job.”
His mouth twitches. “Always knew I had a talent.”
Lia turns away from us, staring at the basin again. The surface remains smooth, regulated—for now. I see the weight pressing on her shoulders, the knowledge that every second we stand here costs something unseen.
“What happens if you stop intervening?” I ask quietly.
She doesn’t look back. “The ship defaults.”
“And default means?—”
“Maximum efficiency,” she says. “Minimum constraint.”
The hum deepens, almost imperceptibly. I place one hand against the wall again, feeling the strain humming through it like a living wire pulled too tight.
“Then we are on borrowed time,” I say.
“Yes.”
“And borrowed mercy.”
She turns then, meeting my gaze squarely. “Rakkh… if I miscalculate?—”
“You won’t,” I cut in.
“I might,” she insists.
“Then we will adapt,” I say. “Or we will break what needs breaking.”
