Aboard the rescue ship Skiff.
Control deck.
The ship bursts out of the kill zone with a hoarse, throttled groan—
as if the hull itself exhales its tension.
The metal still trembles from the heat.
Astern trails a wake of pulsing terror:
clots of warped space, fractures in flight-paths,
charred droplets of light where a heartbeat ago there was fire—and the end.
One second later and they would have been gone.
Not destroyed. Simply… absent.
For a moment the control deck is a tomb.
Even the interfaces hold their breath.
Only the hum of the isolation field remains—
like a muted heartbeat in the vacuum.
A small lifeboat, cut adrift from everything that, yesterday,
still had the name universe.
Maria lets her hands drop heavy onto the console.
Her fingers tremble, the knuckles bloodless.
She stares at the blinking indicators
as if they're the pulse of a living creature.
"We're safe…" she breathes out.
Her voice trembles. "We got away."
But did they?
What if this is only the first wave?
Her voice carries relief.
Her eyes count seconds… and shadows.
Beside her, Captain Manuel sits frozen in his chair.
He isn't breathing.
All his focus is on the forward display.
Ahead: emptiness.
Smooth. Silent.
Too quiet to be safe.
"Samon's ship, *Stern*… has been taken," he says quietly.
The words land like an admission of guilt—
or a farewell to trust.
We didn't save them.
We didn't make it in time.
Again.
From behind comes an explosion of voice:
"How the hell did they find us?!"
Vicar is on his feet.
His face burns red, his eyes sharp and scorching,
as if searching for a traitor in each of us.
"Did we let ourselves be set up?!
Were you all asleep?!"
Pietro doesn't look up from the scanner.
His forehead shines with sweat.
His fingers flick through logs
with the surgical ferocity of a man looking for the exact moment the body died.
"Tagged nanoparticles in the package," he says,
his voice steady though something inside it trembles.
"Their signature was a beacon.
They activated on opening.
A decoy capsule.
The trap worked."
"We knew about this threat!"
Vicar's voice is almost a roar—
as if volume alone might reverse the fact.
"Why the hell wasn't it stopped?!"
Silence falls.
Not just thick—it strangles.
Pietro turns his head, meeting Vicar's stare.
"I scanned immediately.
Blocked the signal.
But…" He nods at the display.
A red point pulses there,
throbbing like a wound.
"Too late.
They marked the pick-up moment.
An almost beautiful trap—if you ignore the blood."
Maria frowns, her fingers moving over the console
like playing the keys of an alarm.
"These might be the same particles Ragnar warned about—
reverse-link, autonomous activation…"
"So they really did slip us an infection," Vicar says flatly.
For a moment his eyes close,
and in that moment he seems older, quieter, cracked.
"Put the capsule in isolation.
Full analysis of the contents.
Maximum protocol.
No mistakes. Not one."
Manuel says nothing,
but his hands live again—dancing over the panels
with the weary precision of a tired god.
A crooked smile ghosts across his face.
"Well, at least those last credits we burned on upgrading the defense system weren't wasted,"
he tries to puncture the silence.
"Saved our skins again."
"You've said that already, Captain," Maria replies without looking at him,
her voice laced with tired irritation.
"And we already said we were wrong," Pietro adds.
"That you were right.
That we're grateful."
"You said it," Manuel says,
turning from the display with a mock-challenge in his tone
and sparks of undimmed madness in his eyes.
"But without… passion.
Where's the fire?"
Maria and Pietro exchange a glance.
Without a word, they rise,
stand at attention, chins high.
"CAPTAIN MANUEL IS THE GREATEST CAPTAIN IN THE UNIVERSE!"
"At ease, soldiers," he grins.
"That's better. Now I hear the soul.
And the truth."
Laughter warms the control deck—
not loud, but alive.
Like a breath after a blow.
Like light slipping through a crack.
But Vicar does not laugh.
He sits like a powered-down machine,
eyes glassy and hollow.
What if this isn't real?
What if we already lost—
and just haven't realized it yet?
Then—
a sound.
The door.
Soft, but too precise.
Every head turns.
Julia and Alex enter.
Their faces are both tense—
but with different shades.
Julia's is tender, almost maternal.
Alex's is sharp-edged.
Julia steps forward.
"Where's our kitten?
We were told it's here…"
"It's here," Vicar says.
His voice is dry, scorched.
"But it's infected. In isolation."
Alex meets his gaze,
his entire face tightened like a combat mechanism.
"I created it.
It's my design.
I'm responsible.
Let me run the analysis.
We know what we're dealing with."
Silence—
as if time itself halts.
Vicar rises slowly.
"Fine.
But only in a secure chamber.
Full oversight.
Every step watched.
Not a centimeter without report. Clear?"
"Clear," Alex nods.
"Thank you," Julia whispers.
They leave.
The door closes quietly—
like the final line of an equation.
Silence wraps the deck again.
But not the same silence.
This is not the quiet of rest.
It's the hush of an infected body
before its first convulsion.
No one speaks.
Because everyone feels it:
The kitten is not the source.
It's a symptom.
And the sickness is already inside.