“Yes.”
That is not a lie.
It is also not the full truth.
Maltos exhales slowly, adjusting his grip on the slate.
“The adjustments are… effective,” he admits, the word chosen with reluctance. “Preliminary data indicates improved distribution and reduced saturation in lower root zones.”
“Then the change stands.”
“Yes, sir,” he says, though the tension in his voice does not fully dissipate. “However, deviations from protocol?—”
“—are acceptable when protocol fails,” I cut in.
His jaw tightens.
“Protocol exists to prevent unnecessary risk.”
“And inefficiency is a risk.”
We hold each other’s gaze for a moment, the silence between us carrying more weight than the words themselves.
Maltos inclines his head slightly.
“Yes, sir.”
He steps back.
The conversation is over.
For him.
For me?—
It lingers.
I leave the operations chamber without further instruction, the hum of systems following me into the corridor, the sterile air settling against my skin in a way that should ground me and does not.
Because I am not thinking about the adjustment.
I am thinking about the source.
The way she identified the problem without access to the system.
The way she articulated it without hesitation.
The way she did not soften it to make it more acceptable.
That is not common.
That is not trained.
That is?—
Useful.
The word surfaces uninvited.
