“You’re serious.”
“I’ve been serious.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “This is different.”
He’s right.
“Prepare the fleet,” I say, turning toward the exit. “Defensive posture. No escalation unless engaged.”
“That’s not how we usually handle this,” Vihl calls after me.
“This isn’t usual,” I reply.
He huffs under his breath.
“No,” he mutters. “It really isn’t.”
We move toward the bridge, tension shifting into execution.
“What are you taking?” Vihl asks, glancing toward me.
“Fastest strike vessel,” I say. “Minimal crew.”
He stops walking for half a step, then catches up.
“You’re not taking a crew,” he says firmly.
“I need?—”
“You need speed,” he cuts in. “Anyone else slows you down.”
I glance at him.
He’s right.
“Then I go alone,” I say.
“That’s what I’m telling you,” he replies.
“And you’re alright with that?”
Vihl lets out a short breath, almost a laugh, but without humor.
“No,” he says. “But I’m not stupid enough to try to stop you.”
“That’s a reasonable conclusion.”
“Don’t get used to it,” he mutters.
We enter the bridge, and the room shifts instantly.
“Listen up,” I say, my voice carrying across the space. “We’re adjusting strategy.”
Every head turns.
“Primary fleet holds defensive formation,” I continue. “No escalation unless engaged.”
“That’s going to look like weakness,” one officer says carefully.
