21. Roma
ROMA
The moment the outer hatch opens, something inside me tears loose and does not come back.
I do not hear the decompression alarms anymore.
I do not hear the Reapers securing the chamber or the locking clamps sealing the breach behind them.
Sound collapses into something distant and hollow, as if the ship has sealed me inside a vacuum of my own making.
All I see is the last image burned into my vision—Dux’s hand against the glass, the shape of his mouth forming words I could not hear, and then the violent, final absence where he had been.
My palm is still pressed to the airlock viewport.
There is nothing on the other side now.
Only warped starlight and drifting debris, bending through the core’s distortion.
“Move,” one of the Reapers says.
The voice reaches me as if it has to travel a great distance.
I do not respond.
A hand clamps around my upper arm, hard enough to bruise, and pulls me away from the glass.
My body moves because it is forced to move, not because I choose it.
My boots scrape against the deck as they drag me backward into the corridor, the damaged section of my ship already receding behind layers of armored plating and foreign control.
My ship.
The thought arrives late, delayed, as if it must navigate around the larger, sharper absence that has taken its place.
“Let go of me,” I say.
The words come out flat, stripped of the sharpness I expect.
The Reaper holding me does not loosen its grip.
“You are being relocated,” it replies.
“I am not cargo.”
“You are an asset.”
“I did not agree to that classification.”
“You are not required to agree.”
The corridor shifts around us as we cross the docking threshold into their vessel.
The architecture changes immediately—angles sharper, lighting colder, surfaces darker and more seamless.
The air feels different, thinner in a way that is not measurable but perceptible, as though the ship itself resents the presence of anything not built for it.
They march me forward.
I do not resist.
Not because I cannot.
Because resistance without leverage is wasted motion, and I have already lost more than I can afford to lose through impulse.
Dux’s face tries to push its way back into my thoughts.
I do not allow it.
Not yet.
I file it away.
Later.
If there is a later.
We move through a series of bulkhead doors that open in sequence as we approach, each one sealing behind us with a sound that feels too final.
The Reapers maintain formation around me, not hurried, not tense, simply efficient.
I note their spacing, their weapon placement, the rhythm of their movement.
I catalog everything I can because the alternative is thinking about the empty space where he should still be.
We stop.
A door opens.
“Enter,” one of them says.
I step through.
The chamber beyond is larger than I expect, circular, with a central platform and elevated consoles arranged along the perimeter.
The lighting is dim but deliberate, casting long shadows that stretch toward the center like something reaching inward.
At the far end, a figure stands with his back to me, tall, broad-shouldered, dressed not in uniform armor but in something more tailored—functional, but chosen.
He turns as I enter.
His face is not what I expect.
There is no grotesque distortion, no visible mutation, no overt sign of monstrosity.
He looks almost human at a glance, which makes the differences sharper when they reveal themselves.
His eyes are wrong—too steady, too deliberate, as if they have learned how to mimic attention rather than possessing it naturally.
The lines of his face hold a stillness that suggests control rather than calm.
He studies me.
Not quickly.
Not carelessly.
His gaze moves over me with measured precision, taking in the blood on my temple, the scorch marks on my sleeve, the way I hold myself despite the restraints imposed on me moments ago.
“You are Roma Larson,” he says.
“Yes.”
His voice is deep, controlled, and carries an undercurrent of something that does not quite belong to any single emotion.
“I am Throgg,” he continues.
“I did not ask.”
“No,” he says, a faint hint of something like amusement touching the corner of his mouth. “You did not.”
His eyes move again, slower this time, assessing.
“Remove the restraints,” he says.
The Reapers comply immediately, releasing my arms and stepping back without hesitation.
I do not move.
“Walk,” Throgg says.
I step forward onto the central platform, keeping my posture straight, my breathing even, my expression controlled. Every instinct I have is screaming to react, to lash out, to demand, to grieve, but none of those responses serve me here.
I will not waste what remains of my agency.
Throgg circles me slowly.
His gaze is clinical at first, evaluating physical condition, injury, posture. Then it lingers longer, shifting into something more calculating, more personal.
“You are smaller than I expected,” he says.
“And you are less impressive than your ship suggests.”
One of the Reapers shifts slightly behind me.
Throgg does not react.
Instead, he tilts his head, studying me with renewed interest.
“You watched your companion die,” he says.
The words strike with surgical precision.
I do not flinch.
“Yes.”
“No display of grief.”
“I am occupied.”
“With what?”
“Survival.”
His expression changes again, subtly, something sharpening behind the stillness.
“That is correct,” he says. “You are.”
He steps closer.
The air between us tightens.
“I have options for you,” he continues. “Some of them are less… intellectually demanding than others.”
I meet his gaze directly.
“Then choose wisely.”
A pause.
Long enough to carry weight.
His eyes narrow slightly, not in anger, but in consideration.
“You speak as if you have leverage,” he says.
“I have value.”
“Explain.”
I shift my stance, allowing a slight imbalance to show, just enough vulnerability to make the calculation believable.
“You disabled my ship with precision,” I say. “Not brute force. Not overwhelming firepower. You targeted structural weaknesses, system dependencies, and control pathways. That requires detailed analysis in real time. That requires engineering sophistication.”
He watches me carefully.
“And?” he prompts.
“And you still required external devices to complete the disablement,” I continue. “Your systems are efficient, but they are not optimized for adaptive integration with foreign architecture. You compensate with force where you could achieve greater efficiency with understanding.”
His eyes sharpen.
“You presume a great deal,” he says.
“I observe a great deal,” I reply.
Silence stretches again, heavier this time.
The Reapers remain still behind me.
Throgg studies my face, searching for hesitation, for weakness, for anything that would indicate bluff or desperation.
I give him neither.
“You are suggesting,” he says slowly, “that you are more useful to me as a technician than as… something else.”
“Yes.”
“And if I disagree?”
“Then you waste a resource you went to considerable effort to capture.”
He takes another step closer.
Close enough now that I can see the fine details of his expression, the controlled tension in his jaw, the way his eyes track micro-movements in my posture.
“You assume I value efficiency above other considerations,” he says.
“I assume you did not build that ship by indulging inefficiency.”
That lands.
I see it in the slight shift of his expression.
Not offense.
Recognition.
“You are bold,” he says.
“I am correct.”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
He steps back.
“Survival,” he says, almost to himself. “You mentioned it earlier.”
“Yes.”
“I can offer that.”
“I am listening.”
“In exchange for cooperation.”
The words settle into place with cold clarity.
A transaction.
Not mercy.
Never mercy.
“What kind of cooperation?” I ask.
“You will assist my engineers,” he says. “You will analyze systems, refine processes, improve efficiency where applicable.”
“And in return?”
“You continue to exist.”
I let the silence stretch just enough to make it feel like a consideration rather than a concession.
“And my autonomy?” I ask.
“Limited.”
“My safety?”
“Conditional.”
“My objectives?”
His gaze sharpens again.
“You have one,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Your father.”
The word hits harder than anything he has said so far.
I hold steady.
“You intercepted my signal,” I say.
“I intercepted your pursuit of it.”
“Then you know where it leads.”
“I have a general understanding.”
“Then you have a shared interest.”
That earns me a longer look.
“Explain.”
“If my father is alive,” I say, keeping my voice measured, controlled, “then his work has value. If his work has value, then locating him benefits you as much as it benefits me.”
“And you would assist in that process.”
“Yes.”
“In exchange for your continued survival.”
“And access to your systems.”
His brows arch over a gaze holding something almost like admiration.
“You negotiate well,” he says.
“I do not negotiate,” I reply. “I optimize outcomes.”
A faint smile touches his mouth.
“Very well,” he says. “You will be given an opportunity to demonstrate your usefulness.”
“And if I succeed?”
“You remain useful.”
“And if I fail?”
His gaze hardens.
“You become something else.”
The meaning is clear.
I incline my head slightly.
“Understood.”
He turns away from me, already issuing quiet commands to the Reapers stationed along the perimeter.
“Assign her to engineering,” he says. “Under supervision.”
“Yes, Commander,” one of them replies.
I stand where I am for one moment longer, allowing my breathing to remain steady, my posture controlled, my expression neutral.
Inside, something fractures.
Dux’s face surfaces again, sharp and immediate, the last look he gave me burned into my memory with unbearable clarity.
I lock it away.
Not because it does not matter.
Because it matters too much.
And I cannot afford to break here.
Not now.
Not when I am closer than I have ever been.
Not when I still have a path forward.
I lift my head and follow the Reapers toward the exit.
And somewhere beneath all of it, buried deep enough that it cannot interfere with what I need to do next?—
I begin calculating how to destroy him.