23. Stacy
STACY
T he first thing I notice isn’t the alert.
It’s the way people stop pretending not to look at me.
That’s how I know something has shifted beyond rumor, beyond internal tension, into something that has weight outside this ship.
Conversations don’t stop when I enter a space, not abruptly, not obviously, but they bend, redirect, tighten in a way that tells me I’ve moved from background variable to active problem.
And problems get solved.
I keep my pace steady as I move through the corridor, letting my shoulder brush lightly against the curved wall as I pass, grounding myself in the physical sensation while I track everything else.
The air smells faintly sharper today—overcycled, like the filtration systems are compensating for higher activity—and beneath it there’s the metallic tang of charged systems running hotter than usual.
War prep.
They haven’t said it outright yet, not in the open, but the ship already knows.
So do I.
I turn into the lower operations tier instead of the main bridge, because this is where people talk when they think they aren’t being monitored closely. Not careless—never careless—but looser, more human, more likely to let something slip.
Two crew members stand near a secondary console, their voices low, shoulders angled inward, the posture of people trying to contain a conversation that shouldn’t spread.
“—they got our jump pattern from somewhere,” one of them is saying, rubbing a hand across his jaw, tension pulling at the corners of his mouth. “That wasn’t guesswork.”
The other shakes his head, arms crossed tight. “It couldn’t have been external. We haven’t broadcast anything outside closed channels.”
“Then how did they vector that clean?” the first presses, voice dropping further as he leans in. “They came in aligned with our drift. That’s not coincidence.”
I don’t slow.
I don’t stop.
But I listen.
“That’s not our problem,” the second one says after a moment, though his tone lacks conviction. “That’s command-level. We don’t?—”
“It becomes our problem when we’re the ones getting shot at,” the first cuts in, sharper now, then reins himself back just enough to keep from drawing attention. “You don’t think Combine’s been trying to get inside this crew for months?”
A small, humorless exhale.
“They’ve been trying for years.”
“And you think they just stopped?”
The silence that follows answers that.
I pass them without looking directly, my reflection sliding faintly across the polished surface of the wall.
But inside, the pieces are already aligning.
Combine doesn’t move like that without information.
Not this precise.
Not this fast.
Which means?—
I take the next turn without hesitation, moving deeper into the lower levels where the ship’s hum is louder, less filtered, where the vibration travels more directly through the floor and into my bones.
There’s a leak.
Not speculation.
Not possibility.
Fact.
And if there’s a leak, then everything else changes.
Because this isn’t just about Tyrok’s decision anymore.
This is about someone feeding the enemy.
I exhale slowly, letting the realization settle into something usable instead of reactive, my mind already shifting into pattern recognition, into observation, into selection.
Who benefits?
Who has access?
Who has motive?
The list isn’t long.
It never is.
I slow near a junction, resting my hand briefly against the console there as if checking something routine, but really I’m watching the movement around me, tracking who moves where, who looks at what, who avoids what.
Fear looks different depending on the person.
Guilt looks even more specific.
I watch for both.
A pair of technicians pass, their conversation mundane, focused on shield calibration, their movements fluid, unguarded.
Not them.
Further down, a weapons officer lingers too long near a data terminal before moving on, his gaze flicking once toward a restricted panel before he catches himself.
Not necessarily him.
But noted.
I straighten and continue, my path now deliberate instead of exploratory.
If there’s a leak, I don’t have time to root it out cleanly.
And even if I did?—
It doesn’t change the larger problem.
Tyrok chose.
I felt it before I knew it.
And now the consequences are already in motion.
Combine fleet movement.
Crew tension.
Trade instability.
All converging.
All accelerating.
And at the center of it?—
Me.
I don’t flinch from that.
I accept it.
Because accepting it is the only way to do anything about it.
I turn toward Vihl’s section without announcing myself, because if I’m going to test anything, it needs to be unprepared, unfiltered, real.
His door is half open when I reach it, and I can hear him before I see him, pacing inside, boots hitting the floor with staccato rhythm, his voice low as he mutters something under his breath that I don’t quite catch.
I step into the doorway without knocking.
“You’re wearing a path into the floor.”
He stops immediately, turning toward me, and the tension in his posture doesn’t disappear—it sharpens, redirects.
“Yeah,” he says, dragging a hand across the back of his neck, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studies me. “I could say the same about you, except you hide it better.”
“I don’t hide it,” I reply, stepping inside fully. “I control when it’s visible.”
He huffs once at that, not quite amused.
“Fair enough,” he says, then gestures vaguely toward the room. “You here to tell me something, or just critique my pacing technique?”
“I need information,” I say.
His expression shifts, just slightly.
“What kind of information?” he asks.
“The kind you don’t put in reports.”
That earns me a longer look.
“Dangerous category,” he mutters.
“Necessary one.”
He exhales slowly, then leans back against the edge of a console, arms crossing loosely this time instead of tight.
“Alright,” he says. “Ask.”
I hold his gaze.
“Do you trust your crew?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer immediately, and that delay tells me more than the answer itself.
“I trust most of them,” he says finally.
“Not all.”
“No,” he admits, his jaw tightening slightly. “Not all.”
I nod once.
“There’s a leak,” I say.
His eyes sharpen instantly, all distraction gone.
“You’re sure?” he asks, pushing off the console.
“Yes.”
“What makes you say that?”
I tilt my head slightly.
“They matched our movement pattern without external broadcast,” I say. “They’re not guessing. They’re informed.”
He studies me for a moment, then nods once, sharp.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I came to the same conclusion.”
“Have you identified the source?”
“No,” he replies, frustration threading through the word. “And I don’t like not knowing.”
“Neither do I.”
He exhales, pacing once, then turning back.
“Why are you bringing this to me?” he asks. “Why not Tyrok?”
Because Tyrok already chose.
Because if I tell him, he’ll act on it.
Because that will make everything worse.
I don’t say any of that.
Instead, I step closer, just enough to shift the dynamic without crowding it.
“Because I need to know where you stand,” I say.
His brow furrows slightly.
“On what?”
“On him,” I clarify.
Understanding hits immediately.
“Stacy—”
“Don’t deflect,” I cut in, not sharply, but firmly enough that he doesn’t continue. “Answer me.”
He studies me, longer this time, weighing something.
“I stand with him,” he says finally.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“It’s the answer you’re getting,” he replies, but there’s tension in it now.
I don’t move.
“That means you support his decision,” I say.
He exhales through his nose.
“It means I don’t undermine him,” he corrects.
“Even if he’s wrong.”
That lands.
He doesn’t answer right away, and I watch the conflict move through him, subtle but real.
“…Yeah,” he says eventually, quieter. “Even then.”
I nod once.
Good.
That tells me everything I need to know.
“You’re going to try to fix this,” he says suddenly, his eyes narrowing as something clicks into place. “Aren’t you?”
I don’t answer.
Which is answer enough.
“Don’t,” he says immediately, stepping forward. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”
“It’s already in motion,” I reply.
“Stacy—”
“I’m not asking for permission,” I say.
His jaw tightens.
“Then what are you asking for?”
“Your help.”
The words settle between us, heavy, unavoidable.
“With what?” he asks, though I can tell he already knows.
I meet his gaze.
“With making this clean.”
Silence stretches between us, filled with everything neither of us is saying.
“You’re talking about leaving,” he says finally, his voice low.
“Yes.”
“You think that fixes it.”
“I know it does.”
His hands flex slightly at his sides.
“You don’t know what happens to you if you do that.”
“I do.”
“And you’re doing it anyway.”
“Yes.”
He looks at me like he wants to argue, like he wants to tear the logic apart, but there’s nothing to grab onto.
Because I’m right.
And he knows it.
“…He’s not going to forgive this,” Vihl says quietly.
I hold his gaze.
“This isn’t about forgiveness.”
That lands harder than anything else.
He exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face.
“You’re serious,” he mutters.
“I don’t do this halfway.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head once. “No, you don’t.”
Silence settles again, heavier this time, more final.
“…What do you need?” he asks at last.
I don’t hesitate.
“Access,” I say. “Timing. And no interference.”
He lets out a short breath, almost a laugh, but there’s no humor in it.
“You’re asking me to help you disappear,” he says.
“I’m asking you to help stabilize the system.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods once, sharp and resigned.
“…Alright,” he says. “But we do this smart.”
“We do this clean,” I correct.
“Same thing,” he mutters.
“No,” I say quietly. “It isn’t.”
He doesn’t argue.
Because he understands the difference.
I turn toward the door, already moving, already shifting into execution instead of planning.
“When?” he asks.
“Soon,” I reply.
“How soon?”
I pause just long enough to answer.
“Before he can stop it.”
And then I’m gone, moving through the corridor with purpose now, everything aligned, every step part of something that doesn’t allow hesitation.