I step forward slowly, my gaze sweeping the space, tracking the heat distortions, the residual burn in the air, the scent of fuel sharp enough to taste.
“She planned this,” I say, my voice quiet but precise.
Behind me, I hear Vihl exhale before he answers.
“Yes,” he says, his tone carrying weight now, heavier than agreement. “She did.”
I turn then, slowly, fixing my gaze on him, and he doesn’t look away.
“You helped her,” I say.
Vihl’s shoulders square slightly, his stance grounding before he answers.
“No,” he says, measured, deliberate. “I didn’t stop her.”
“That’s not a distinction,” I reply, my voice flattening.
“It is to me,” he counters, holding my gaze without flinching.
The air between us tightens.
“You made a choice,” I say.
Vihl lets out a short breath, something sharper this time, and steps forward just enough to meet the tension head-on.
“So did you,” he shoots back.
That lands.
Harder than it should.
I don’t respond immediately. Instead, I turn away from him, redirecting my focus to the task in front of me, because standing in that moment doesn’t change the outcome.
“Track the shuttle,” I order, my voice cutting cleanly through the comm channel.
“Already on it,” the tactical officer replies, his tone quick, focused. “They launched on a low-profile vector. Minimal signature.”
“Then find the signature anyway,” I snap, sharper now.
A pause—brief, but present—then:
“Got it,” the officer says. “Faint trail. They’re heading out-system, vector angled toward Combine approach lanes.”
Of course they are.
“She’s not running,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else.
Vihl shifts slightly beside me, his voice quieter now, more certain.
“She’s surrendering.”
That word settles deeper.
Sharper.
I straighten slowly.
“She’s removing herself from the equation,” I say.
