24. Tyrok
TYROK
S omething is wrong.
It isn’t obvious, not in a way I can isolate or name, but it sits under everything like a vibration just out of sync with the rest of the ship, subtle enough that no one else would call it out, sharp enough that I can’t ignore it.
The bridge is active, efficient, every station occupied, every system running at elevated capacity as we prepare for contact, but the rhythm is off, like a machine that still functions but no longer aligns cleanly with itself.
I feel it in the way the deck hum travels through my boots, slightly uneven, and in the way the air carries heat from overworked systems, a faint dryness settling at the back of my throat as I breathe it in.
The scent of ozone lingers stronger than it should, clinging to the edges of everything, and even the light seems harsher, reflecting off the metal surfaces with a brightness that feels intrusive.
“Shield grid recalibrated,” one of the techs calls out, his voice steady but tighter than usual as he adjusts the projection in front of him. “Layered reinforcement holding at ninety-two percent efficiency.”
“Push it to ninety-five,” I reply without looking at him, my gaze fixed on the tactical display where the Combine signatures continue their steady advance. “I want redundancy across all outer arcs.”
“That’ll strain?—”
“I didn’t ask,” I cut in, my tone flat enough that he doesn’t finish the objection.
He swallows it, nodding once. “Yes, sir.”
Vihl stands to my left, arms crossed, his weight shifting slightly as he studies the projection, his eyes tracking the incoming formation with a focus that mirrors my own but carries something else beneath it.
“You feel it too,” he mutters, not quite a question.
“Yes,” I reply.
He exhales slowly through his nose, then glances at me. “Good,” he says. “I was starting to think I was just getting paranoid.”
“You are paranoid,” I say.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “But I’m usually right.”
That earns him a brief glance, and there’s something in the set of his jaw that tells me he’s already ahead of where most of the crew is, already tracking not just the external threat but the internal fracture building alongside it.
“Report,” I say.
“Combine vanguard holding course,” the tactical officer answers immediately, pulling up additional data. “No deviation in trajectory. They’re not probing. They’re committing.”
“Of course they are,” Vihl mutters.
“They’ve got reason now,” I say.
He doesn’t respond to that, but I feel the agreement in the way he shifts his stance, grounding himself against the tension building across the bridge.
“Reinforce internal security,” I continue. “I want restricted access on all command-level systems. No exceptions.”
“That’s going to raise flags,” one of the crew says cautiously.
“Good,” I reply, my voice sharpening slightly. “Let it.”
Movement follows immediately, commands relayed, systems locking down, the hum of the ship shifting again as additional protocols come online. It should feel stabilizing.
It doesn’t.
The wrongness is still there.
Still building.
“Talk to me,” Vihl says quietly, stepping closer. “What aren’t you seeing?”
“I don’t know yet,” I admit.
He huffs softly. “That’s not your usual answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
He studies me for a moment, then nods once, slow.
“Alright,” he says. “Then we assume worst case.”
“Internal breach,” I say.
“Yeah,” he replies, his voice tightening slightly. “That’s where I’m landing too.”
I don’t like that.
Not because it’s unlikely.
Because it fits too well.
“Lock down internal traffic logs,” I order. “Cross-reference access points against command-level clearance.”
“Already in progress,” the systems officer replies.
“Good,” I say, though it does nothing to ease the pressure building under my skin.
A sharp voice cuts in from the rear of the bridge, louder than it should be.
“So we’re just ignoring it, then?”
The room shifts instantly, attention snapping toward the source, and I turn slowly in my chair to face the speaker.
Renn.
Weapons officer.
Competent.
Reliable.
Until now.
“We’re not ignoring anything,” I say, my voice calm.
His shoulders are tight, his posture rigid in a way that signals he’s already committed to whatever he’s about to say.
“Looks like it from here,” he replies, and there’s an edge in his tone that doesn’t belong on my bridge.
“Clarify,” I say.
He hesitates for a fraction of a second, then pushes forward anyway.
“You’re risking everything,” he says, louder now, his gaze locked onto mine. “For her.”
The words land, and the tension across the bridge spikes instantly, crew members going still without looking directly, their attention split between their stations and the confrontation unfolding in front of them.
“Stand down,” Vihl says sharply, stepping forward.
“No,” Renn snaps, shaking his head. “No, I’m not standing down. Not when this is going to get all of us killed.”
The air tightens.
I rise slowly from the command chair, letting the movement carry its own weight, my height alone enough to shift the balance of the room before I even speak.
“You’re out of line,” I say.
“I’m right,” he fires back, and now there’s something raw in his voice, something that has been building for longer than this moment. “We built this on rules, on structure, and you’re breaking it for one person.”
“One person who changed our outcomes,” I reply.
“One person who’s about to get us wiped out,” he counters.
Vihl moves closer, his presence sharp, dangerous. “That’s enough.”
Renn doesn’t back down.
“That’s not enough,” he says, his voice shaking slightly now, not with fear but with something closer to desperation. “You think the Combine shows up like this over nothing? You think they don’t know exactly what you did?”
“They know what I want them to know,” I say.
“Then why are they here?” he demands.
The question hangs there, heavy and unavoidable.
I step forward.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Each step closes the distance between us, and I watch him track the movement, watch the moment where instinct tells him to step back and pride forces him to stay where he is.
“Because they think this is a weakness,” I say quietly.
“And it is,” he snaps.
I stop in front of him.
Close enough that he has to tilt his head slightly to maintain eye contact.
“Say that again,” I tell him.
His throat tightens.
I see it.
Feel it.
But he doesn’t look away.
“It’s a weakness,” he repeats, though the edge has dulled slightly.
I don’t raise my voice.
I don’t need to.
“You forget who you’re talking to,” I say, letting the words land slow and heavy.
“I remember exactly who you are,” he replies.
“No,” I correct. “You remember what I was.”
The distinction settles into the space between us.
“You don’t challenge me on my own bridge,” I continue, my voice dropping lower, colder. “You don’t question command in front of the crew. And you don’t mistake restraint for uncertainty.”
His breathing is faster now.
I move--fast.
My hand closes around his throat before he can react, lifting him just enough that his boots scrape against the floor, the sound sharp and brief before silence crashes down around it.
“You think this is about her?” I ask, my voice steady despite the tension coiling through my arm. “You think I make decisions like this without understanding the cost?”
He claws at my wrist, not effectively, not enough to break my grip.
“Then explain it,” he forces out, the words strained.
I lean in slightly.
“You don’t need the explanation,” I say quietly. “You need the result.”
I release him.
He drops hard, catching himself on one knee, coughing once as he drags air back into his lungs.
“Anyone else,” I say, my gaze sweeping across the bridge, catching every pair of eyes that refuses to meet mine directly, “wants to test that?”
No one speaks.
No one moves.
Good.
I turn back to the command chair and sit, the motion deliberate, as if nothing of consequence just happened.
“Get back to your stations,” I say.
Movement resumes immediately.
Not natural.
Not comfortable.
But functional.
Vihl steps closer, his voice low.
“That’s going to hold for now,” he says.
“For now is enough,” I reply.
He studies me for a moment, then nods.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “For now.”
The wrongness is still there.
Stronger now.
Sharper.
Like something just slipped past the point where I can ignore it.
I lean forward slightly, my claws resting against the edge of the console as I pull up internal tracking systems.
“Run a full location check,” I say.
“On who?” the systems officer asks.
I don’t hesitate.
“Stacy.”
There’s a pause.
Too long.
“...She’s not on the bridge,” he says carefully.
“I’m aware,” I reply, my voice tightening just slightly. “Find her.”
His fingers move quickly across the interface, pulling up internal trackers, access logs, movement patterns.
“Last confirmed location…” he mutters, then hesitates.
“Say it,” I snap.
“Lower operations tier,” he says. “Approximately forty minutes ago.”
Forty minutes.
Too long.
“Current position?” I demand.
He runs the scan again, deeper this time.
“I’m not getting a lock,” he says.
The words hit wrong.
“What do you mean you’re not getting a lock?” Vihl asks sharply.
“I mean her signal isn’t registering,” the officer replies, tension creeping into his voice. “It’s… gone.”
The hum of the ship feels louder.
Heavier.
“Run it again,” I say.
“I am,” he says quickly. “I’m checking secondary?—”
“Do it faster.”
His hands move faster.
Still nothing.
I feel it then.
Clear.
Sharp.
That wrongness snapping into place with sudden, brutal clarity.
“She wouldn’t just disappear,” Vihl says, though there’s no conviction in it.
“No,” I agree.
I’m already moving.
“Pull corridor logs,” I order. “Track her last movement.”
The display shifts, security feeds flickering into place, and I watch them in rapid succession, my focus narrowing as I follow her path.
Lower tier.
Junction.
Vihl’s corridor.
My jaw tightens.
“Expand that,” I say.
The image sharpens.
She enters.
Doesn’t leave.
Not through the main corridor.
“Internal access?” I ask.
“Checking,” the officer replies.
Another pause.
“Restricted hatch access,” he says slowly. “Authorized through command-level override.”
Vihl goes still beside me.
“That’s my clearance,” he says quietly.
I don’t look at him.
I don’t need to.
Because the answer is already there.
Already forming.
Already too late.
“She planned it,” I say.
Not a guess.
Not a theory.
A fact.
The pieces align too cleanly, the timing too precise, the execution too controlled for anything else.
“She knew,” I continue, my voice low, tight. “She knew exactly what this would do.”
Vihl exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Tyrok—”
“Where does it lead?” I cut in.
“External docking routes,” the officer answers. “Maintenance access. Emergency exit paths.”
Escape routes.
My claws dig slightly into the edge of the console.
“She’s removing herself,” I say.
The words settle with finality.
“She’s fixing it,” Vihl mutters.
“No,” I correct, my voice dropping into something colder. “She’s trying to.”
I straighten slowly, the tension in my body coiling into something sharper, more focused.
“Get me every exit vector,” I order. “Every possible route she could take.”
The crew moves instantly.
But I already know.
I already understand.
And I already feel it?—
The moment where this stops being something I can control.
“She did this without telling you,” Vihl says quietly.
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t see it coming.”
I don’t answer him.
Because I did.
I just chose something else.
And now?—
Now I’m paying for it.
I turn toward the exit, already moving.
“Lock down all external access,” I snap. “Now.”
“Already too late if she’s ahead of the seals,” Vihl says.
“I didn’t ask for probabilities,” I reply.