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“You're becoming disturbingly good at surviving mine.”

Ena made a small noise that might have been a laugh and turned toward the ladder before either of them could involve her. They climbed back to the upper platform. By the time Kesta emerged from the condenser shaft, Pela had gathered the council, garden workers, two ration representatives and several people whose families depended heavily on the seed beds. More residents crowded behind them beneath the emergency lamps, close enough to hear without turning the repair into a settlement-wide assembly.

Tavi sat wrapped in a blanket on a chair Sera had apparently ordered someone to carry from the infirmary. His injured arm remained secured against his chest, but a diagnostic slate rested on his knees.

Kesta pointed at him. “You are supposed to be in bed.”

“I am seated.”

“That isn't the same.”

“It is closer than standing.”

Sera, behind him, looked exhausted. “I chose the compromise.”

Kesta decided not to argue with both of them.

Pela held up the irrigation ledger. “Explain.”

Kesta did.

She kept the language simple. The organism had weakened the western seals. Heat allowed it to spread faster. They could isolate the damaged line, cool it, flush it with alkaline solution and restart the auxiliary intake while Tavi’s crew fabricated replacements.

“If we isolate it,” Kesta finished, “the garden beds lose misting pressure for at least twelve hours. Some seedlings will die. If the auxiliary fails, we may lose more.”

A garden worker near the front folded both arms across her chest. “And if you do not isolate it?”

Tavi answered from his chair.

“The primary seal fails.”

“How long?”

He checked the slate. “Before sunrise if the current pressure continues.”

Pela looked around the gathered group. “Then the drinking system goes with it.”

No one pretended there was a good answer. One of the garden workers asked whether part of the beds could be disconnected and moved. Another wanted to know how much infirmary condensation could be diverted temporarily. Sera immediately objected to giving up water required for sterilization, then amended the objection when Kesta suggested using only the collection trays not currently feeding surgical use. Dreven stood beside the condenser hatch and listened. Kesta watched him more than once.

He knew exactly what he would do. She could see impatience tightening his mouth whenever the discussion circled toward a question already answered. Yet he did not cut anyone off, and when one frightened parent accused command of protecting fighters’ water before children’s food, Dreven answered the accusation rather than silencing it.

The decision took eight minutes. Twenty-three hands chose to preserve the drinking system even if the shallow beds were lost. Seven chose to risk another hour in hopes the repairs could be made without isolating the irrigation line. The seven were not shouted down. Pela recorded both counts.

Then she assigned the people who had voted against isolation first access to the beds so they could salvage whatever trays could be moved before the western line closed. Dreven stared at the raised hands as the group dispersed. Kesta came to stand beside him.

“You hated that.”

He looked toward the garden workers already running toward the terraces.

“Command would have been faster.”

“By two minutes.”

“Two minutes can kill.”

“So can teaching everyone that their lives are a calculation you make privately.”

Dreven’s expression remained troubled.