Her breath catches, but her eyes flash brightly, locking onto mine. Good, she needs to understand that I will protect her. The ship does not respond. It does not need to, though. Time is already moving and whatever solution waits deeper inside this vessel, it will not wait forever.
The longer we stand here, the more it assumes the current parameters are acceptable. That its corrections are sufficient. That the cost outside its walls is an acceptable margin of loss.
I have fought enemies that screamed, charged, bled. I have never fought a system that waits. It makes the palms of my hands itch with the desire to strike something.
Lia steps closer to the basin again—not touching, but close enough that the light adjusts subtly to her presence. It irritates me how easily the structure bends around her. How quickly it has accepted her as its point of reference.
I move with her. Always with her.
“You are thinking again,” I say quietly.
“I like to think that I never stopped,” she huffs a breath that might almost be a laugh.
“That is not what I meant.” I lower my voice. “You are planning to sacrifice yourself first.”
Her shoulders tense. Not in denial, which I take to mean that I am right.
“I’m not talking about dying,” she says.
“I am,” I reply flatly.
That gets her attention.
“Rakkh—” she turns, eyes flashing.
“This ship is not asking for authorization,” I continue. “It is shifting responsibility onto you. That is how it avoids fault.”
Her jaw tightens. “It doesn’t have fault. It has parameters.”
“Then it will burn the world while you try to soften the edges.”
The words land hard, as I meant them to. Travnyk watches us from a short distance away, unreadable. Tomas has gone very still, listening without pretending not to. Lia exhales slowly.
“If I don’t intervene, it gets worse faster.”
“And if you do,” I counter, “it spreads slower while binding itself tighter to you.”
She doesn’t argue that. I step closer until we’re nearly chest to chest, lowering my head so she cannot look past me at the basin or the walls or the soft light trying to guide her deeper.
“You are not the solution,” I say, low and certain. “You are a bridge.”
Her breath stutters. “Between what?”
“Between what this ship was built to do—and what it must learn to stop doing.”
She swallows, blinks, and exhales heavily. I see it settle in, the understanding and, as much as I hate it, the fear underneath that.
“It doesn’t want to stop,” she whispers. “It wants correction.”
“No,” I say. “It wants continuity.”
The ship hums faintly, almost curious. I bare my teeth at the walls.
“You do not get to decide alone,” I say aloud, not just to Lia, but to the structure itself. “You will not use her as a buffer while you poison everything else.”
The hum deepens to almost a rumble. It does not seem hostile or defiant, more as if it is considering. Travnyk steps closer.
“It is listening.”
