26. Tyrok
TYROK
B y the time I reach the lower access corridor, I already know.
Not because of a report.
Not because of confirmation.
Because the ship feels wrong in a way that only happens when something irreversible has already happened, when the structure is still standing but the foundation has shifted under it, and everything that follows is just delay catching up to consequence.
The air down here is colder, sharper, carrying the sting of exposed metal and fuel residue, the hum of auxiliary systems vibrating through the deck in a way that feels too open, too uncontained, and it settles into my bones like a warning I should have acted on sooner.
“Seal the bay,” I snap into the comm, not breaking stride as my boots hit the deck in hard, measured impacts. “Lock every external exit point.”
The response comes quickly, but there’s hesitation threaded through it.
“Already attempted,” the comm officer answers, his voice compressed like he’s choosing every word carefully. “Primary doors responded. Secondary access… didn’t.”
I slow slightly, my jaw tightening as I process that.
“Explain that,” I say, my tone dropping.
“Override authorization,” the officer replies, and now the hesitation is clearer, heavier. “Command-level clearance.”
Vihl.
Of course.
My claws flex once at my side as I push forward, the corridor opening into the shuttle bay just as the last echo of engine ignition fades into nothing, the air still unsettled, heat lingering in waves that distort the edges of everything.
I stop in the center of the bay.
Empty.
Not untouched—no, there are signs everywhere—but empty where it matters.
“She’s gone,” one of the deck crew mutters from behind me, his voice low, like saying it too loudly might make it worse.
I don’t turn toward him.
I don’t acknowledge it.
Because I already know.
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.
“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.
“It’s reckless,” he fires back.
“It’s necessary.”
“For her,” he says, quieter now, more pointed.
“Yes.”
The word lands clean.
Final.
Vihl stares at me, something shifting behind his eyes as he processes that.
“You’re choosing her over everything,” he says.
“I’m choosing the outcome,” I reply.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is to me.”
He exhales slowly, turning away for a moment before pacing once, then stopping again.
“Alright,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “Then walk me through it.”
“I already have.”
“Then walk me through it out loud,” he snaps, turning back. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re about to burn everything you built for someone who just left.”
“She didn’t leave me,” I say.
Vihl’s brow tightens.
“She got on a shuttle and flew out of your hangar,” he says. “What exactly would you call that?”
“I’d call it a move,” I reply.
“A move straight into Combine hands,” he counters.
“A move that removes leverage from them,” I correct.
He frowns, processing that.
“Explain it,” he says.
“If she surrenders on her own terms,” I say, stepping closer, my voice lowering as the logic sharpens, “they lose the narrative of extraction. They don’t get to claim we’re holding her.”
“They’ll spin it anyway,” Vihl says.
“They’ll try,” I agree. “But it fractures their position.”
He considers that, then exhales.
“Even if that’s true,” he says, quieter now, “it doesn’t change where she’s going.”
“And that’s where I intercept.”
He looks at me again, longer this time.
“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.
I look directly at him.
“Let it.”
“What about the shuttle?” another asks.
“I’m handling it.”
That lands.
“You personally?” the tactical officer asks.
“Yes.”
Silence follows.
“You’re splitting command,” someone says.
“I’m delegating it,” I correct.
“To who?” they press.
I don’t look at him.
“Vihl has operational control.”
Vihl exhales once, sharp.
“You trust me that much?” he mutters.
“I trust you enough,” I reply.
He straightens slightly.
“Alright,” he says. “Then we do this right.”
“We do this clean,” I correct.
He glances at me.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That too.”
I turn toward the exit again.
“Tyrok,” Vihl calls.
I stop and look back.
“If this goes wrong,” he says, his voice lower now, more personal, “there’s no coming back from it.”
“I know.”
“And you’re still doing it.”
“Yes.”
He studies me, then nods once.
“Then bring her back.”
“I will.”