“Yeah,” Vihl replies, dragging a hand through his hair, his frustration surfacing. “That’s exactly what she’s doing.”
Silence presses in.
“You’re not letting her do that,” he adds, turning toward me fully now.
I don’t hesitate.
“No.”
Vihl studies me for a moment, then nods once, sharp.
“Then we have a problem,” he says, his tone shifting from argument to strategy. “Because if you go after her directly, you leave the fleet exposed.”
“I know.”
“And if you don’t,” he continues, stepping closer, his voice tightening, “she reaches Combine space, and after that, you don’t get her back without turning this into something bigger than you can control.”
“I know.”
He pauses, watching me, reading something in my expression.
“You already decided,” he says.
“Yes.”
“That was fast.”
I glance at him.
“No,” I say. “I just stopped pretending I hadn’t.”
That lands differently.
“What’s the play?” he asks.
I take a breath, slow and measured, before answering.
“Split the fleet.”
Vihl’s head turns sharply toward me, disbelief immediate.
“What?” he demands.
“Divide them,” I repeat, my voice steady. “Primary force holds defensive formation. Draw Combine attention.”
“And you?” he presses.
“I take a strike vessel.”
His expression tightens instantly, and he steps closer, lowering his voice but not the intensity.
“Absolutely not,” Vihl says.
“It’s already decided,” I reply.
“It’s not decided until you make it happen,” he snaps, frustration rising. “You’re talking about breaking formation mid-contact. That’s not strategy—that’s suicide.”
“It’s precision,” I counter.
