The room was too quiet.
Adrian stood at the glass, watching the drones move in the dark. They looked like small, lonely sparks. Below his feet, the station hummed. It was a low vibration he felt in his teeth. It never stopped. It was the sound of a machine that didn't care if he lived or died.
Twelve ships.
Four days.
He did the math again. The numbers didn't change. 150 pirates were coming to kill him, and all he had was a broken station and a man who wasn't a man.
He turned around. Arc was standing by the map. He was perfectly still. No blinking. No shifting. He just stood there like a statue. Even his breathing was too perfect—one breath every four seconds, like a clock ticking down to zero.
Adrian looked at Arc's hands. They were steady.
Adrian's own hands were shaking. He hid them in his pockets.
"Tell me the numbers again," Adrian said. His voice sounded thin in the big, cold room.
He's learning, Adrian thought. But he hasn't learned to breathe yet.
"What do you see?" Adrian asked.
Arc's head turned. The movement was fluid now, almost natural. He'd been learning fast.
"Ships. Twelve. On intercept vector. Estimated arrival: ninety-six hours."
He pointed at the display. The ships were still distant—nothing more than sensor ghosts, faint returns against the background radiation. But they were there. Coming.
Adrian pressed his fingers against his right eye. The warmth was still there, tucked behind the socket like a second heartbeat. It pulsed when he thought about the ships. Once. Twice. Like agreement. Or warning.
"Evangel," he said. "How long until they're in weapons range?"
Her voice came from everywhere and nowhere—the station's speakers, the console beside him, the air itself.
"Approximately eighty-two hours, assuming they maintain current velocity. However, they may slow to scan the belt. Pirates often do. They'll want to know what they're walking into."
Adrian nodded slowly. "So we have time. Not much. But time."
"Time to do what?" Evangel asked. Her voice was warm, motherly—but beneath it, Adrian heard the edge of someone who had waited six hundred years and was terrified of waiting again.
He looked at the tactical display. At the sensor ghosts growing closer. At the avatar system waiting behind his eye.
"We build."
The refinery hit Adrian like a wall.
He opened the hatch and the heat hit him like a physical blow.
It was dry and smelled of chemicals. The air above the furnaces shimmered. The roar of the fire was so loud he felt it in his chest and his teeth. He could taste metal at the back of his throat—copper, iron, and something that burned.
Arc walked in ahead of him. He didn't feel the heat. He didn't sweat. He moved smoothly now, like a real man instead of a drawing.
Adrian followed, wiping sweat from his forehead. His shirt was already sticking to his back. This refinery was built for machines, not for people.
He opened the system. The blue light filled his vision. The spot behind his right eye started to throb. It wasn't just a headache. It was a heavy pressure, like something was pressing against the inside of his skull.
He closed his eyes, but the blue text stayed there, floating in the dark.
___________________________________________________________________
AVATAR SYSTEM — UPGRADE REQUIREMENTS
2 Avatars: 500 refined materials + Basic Power Upgrade
Current Refined Materials: 0
Shortfall: 500
___________________________________________________________________
He dismissed the interface, and the pressure eased. But something lingered. A faint ache behind his eye. A sense that something had been watching while the interface was open.
It will also cost you.
He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. No blood. Not yet.
Arc turned from the control panel. "Mining drones are operational. Thirty units. Refinery is operational. Estimated output: seventy-five refined units per day at standard capacity."
"Seventy-five a day." Adrian did the math. "That's almost seven days for five hundred."
"Yes."
"We have four."
Arc tilted his head. "We can increase refinery output. Push it beyond safety thresholds."
"Define 'beyond safety thresholds.'"
Arc pulled up a new projection. The numbers scrolled across the display.
___________________________________________________________________
REFINERY — ACCELERATED OPERATION
Output: 125 units per day
Refinery Temperature: 3,800°C (87% threshold)
Risk: Component degradation. Cooling system failure. Refinery shutdown.
Time to 500 units: 4 days
___________________________________________________________________
Adrian stared at the numbers. Four days. Exactly four days. If everything went perfectly. If nothing broke. If the refinery didn't cook itself into slag on Day 3.
"And if it fails?"
"Then we have no refined materials. No turrets. No upgrades. No avatars." Arc paused. "We have what we have now."
Adrian looked at the display. At the ships coming. At the timer that was already counting down.
"Push it," he said.
Arc nodded.
"Evangel," Adrian said. "Get the utility bots online. All of them. I want a full inventory of the station by end of day. Every bolt. Every wire. Everything that might be useful."
"Understood." A pause. "Adrian? The mining drones. They're old. They haven't been calibrated in three hundred years."
Adrian closed his eyes. The heat pressed against his eyelids. The roar of the furnaces filled his ears. Somewhere in the walls, he heard something shift—a scraping sound, slow and deliberate, like bones moving in a space they'd outgrown.
The dragon skeleton.
He opened his eyes. "Calibrate them. However long it takes."
"If I take the drones offline for calibration, we lose half a day of mining. Sixty units we can't afford to lose."
"And if the drones fail on Day 3 because we didn't maintain them, we lose everything." He looked at Arc. "What's worse? Losing sixty units now or losing three hundred on Day 3?"
Arc's answer came without hesitation. "Losing three hundred."
Adrian nodded. "Calibrate them. Fast as you can. But do it right."
Evangel was silent for a moment. Then: "Understood."
The warmth behind Adrian's eye pulsed. Once. Twice. Three times.
He ignored it.
The hangar was cold.
After the refinery, the temperature drop was a shock—a knife edge of cold that cut through Adrian's sweat-damp shirt and made his breath steam. The lighting was dim, emergency strips along the walls casting long shadows across the deck. The air was still. Heavy. Waiting.
The utility robots stood in neat rows, their chassis reflecting the dim light, their tool arms folded, their optics dark. Thirty of them. Dormant. Patient.
Adrian walked down the line, counting them. Not because he needed to—Evangel had already given him the inventory—but because moving helped. Walking helped. Doing something helped.
Behind him, Arc's footsteps were silent. Too silent. A man Arc's size should make noise—the creak of boots, the shift of weight, the soft impact of heel on deck. Arc made none of these sounds. He moved like a ghost.
He'll learn, Adrian thought. He's learning everything else.
He stopped at the end of the line. The last robot was different from the others—older, its casing discolored, a thin trail of smoke rising from a seam in its chassis.
"What's wrong with it?"
Evangel's voice was careful. "Unknown. Its diagnostics are corrupted."
"Can it be repaired?"
"Perhaps. But it would require resources we don't have. Replacement parts. Diagnostic tools. Time."
Adrian looked at the smoking robot. Then at the others. Twenty-nine functional units. One broken.
"We'll come back to it," he said. "Wake the rest."
Evangel's voice carried through the hangar—a soft chime, a pulse of energy that made Adrian's teeth ache.
___________________________________________________________________
CHIME.
One by one, the robots' optics lit up. Yellow. Warm. Alive. They flexed their tool arms, rotated their chassis, tested their joints. The sound was a symphony of clicks and whirs, metal on metal, hydraulics hissing.
Then they turned to face him.
Thirty pairs of yellow eyes. Staring.
Adrian's throat tightened. He'd known they would look at him. He'd known they were designed to take orders from the station's primary authority. But knowing and feeling were different things.
They're waiting, he thought. They've been waiting for three hundred years.
"Spread out," he said. His voice was steady, which surprised him. "Explore the station. Clean what needs cleaning. Fix what needs fixing. Organize what needs organizing. Report to Arc."
The robots turned to where Arc stood near the entrance. Arc raised his hand in acknowledgment. No twitch. Not today.
The robots dispersed. Thirty different directions. Within seconds, the hangar was empty except for Adrian, Arc, and the smoking robot.
Adrian let out a breath. "That's going to take some getting used to."
Arc said nothing. His hands were still at his sides. Still.
Adrian sat in the command room, the tactical display glowing in front of him, the station's hum vibrating through his chair. Evangel's voice recited the day's progress:
"Raw ore stockpile: forty-three units. Refined alloys: zero. Refinery temperature: 3,100 degrees Celsius and rising. Mining drones: all operational. Utility robots: twenty-nine operational, one in maintenance backlog."
Adrian nodded. "What about the inventory? What did the bots find?"
A pause. When Evangel spoke again, her voice was different. Curious. Almost surprised.
"There's more here than I thought. The previous occupants... they left things. In storage bays I'd forgotten about. In sections of the station I hadn't accessed in centuries."
"What kind of things?"
"Materials. Components. Schematics for equipment I didn't know we had." Another pause. "And a message. Encrypted. Old. I can't read it without more processing power."
Adrian leaned forward. "A message? From who?"
"I don't know. The encryption is... strange. Not like anything in my databases. It might be from the previous occupants. Or it might be older."
He looked at the tactical display. The sensor ghosts were closer now. Three days, twenty-two hours.
"Can you crack it?"
"I can try. But it would take processing power I'm currently using for other things. Mining operations. Refinery management. Drone calibration."
Adrian weighed the options. A message that might be nothing. A message that might be everything. Against the ships coming. Against the timer counting down.
"After the refinery hits five hundred units," he said. "Then we look at the message."
"Understood."
He sat in the dark, watching the ghosts approach, listening to the station breathe.
Adrian woke in his chair—he'd fallen asleep at the console, his neck stiff, his mouth dry—and when he sat up, something warm dripped onto his lip. He touched his face. His fingers came away red.
He stared at the blood for a long moment. The warmth behind his eye pulsed. Once. Twice.
It will also cost you.
He wiped his nose on his sleeve and stood up. The command room was empty. Arc was somewhere in the station, working. Evangel was managing the refinery, the drones, the thousand small tasks that kept the station running. The display showed the numbers:
___________________________________________________________________
REFINERY STATUS — END DAY 1
Raw Ore Stockpile: 187 units
Refined Alloys: 42 units
Refinery Temperature: 3,800°C (87% threshold)
Projected 500 Units: End of Day 3
___________________________________________________________________
Forty-two units. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
He pulled up the avatar system.
___________________________________________________________________
AVATAR SYSTEM — STATUS
Current Capacity: 1
Second Avatar: Available at 500 refined materials + Basic Power Upgrade
Current Refined Materials: 42 units
Shortfall: 458
___________________________________________________________________
Four hundred fifty-eight units to go. Three days.
He dismissed the interface, and the pressure behind his eye eased. But the nosebleed didn't stop. He pressed a wad of his sleeve against his nostrils and breathed through his mouth.
It's fine, he told himself. It's just stress. Lack of sleep. The heat from the refinery.
He didn't believe it. But he didn't have time to believe it. He had three days.
He found Arc in the research bay.
The avatar was standing in front of a holographic display, his fingers moving through schematics too fast for Adrian to follow. Around him, the bay was cluttered with the remnants of previous experiments—machines that didn't work, crystals that glowed faintly in the dark, notebooks written in languages Adrian didn't recognize.
And in the corner, a ventilation grate. Loose. The screws rusted through.
Adrian stared at it. The scraping sound he'd heard in the walls—the one he'd been telling himself was the station settling, the core cycling, nothing important—was coming from behind that grate.
"What's in there?" he asked.
Arc looked up. "Dragon skeleton. In the ventilation shaft. The previous occupants were trying to combine magic and technology. It did not go well."
Adrian remembered Evangel mentioning it. He'd thought she was joking. "It's still there?"
"Parts of it. The spine remains. The ribs. The skull." Arc paused. "When the station shifts, I hear its bones move."
Adrian walked toward the vent. The grate was loose—he could see the rust around the screws, the way the metal had corroded over centuries. He put his hand near it and felt a draft. Cold. Dry. And beneath it, something else. A smell he couldn't name. Not decay. Something older. Something that had been dead so long it had forgotten it was dead.
He pulled his hand back. "Why hasn't anyone removed it?"
"The previous occupants died before they could. And after they died..." Arc's voice flattened further, losing what little inflection it had. "There was no one left."
Adrian looked at the vent. At the darkness behind it.
Something to deal with later, he thought. After the ships.
He turned away. "Show me what you found."
Arc's discovery was a weapon.
The schematic bloomed across the holographic display—a turret, larger than any of the station's existing defenses, its plasma cannon designed for one purpose: punching holes in ships too big for standard weapons to hurt.
___________________________________________________________________
HEAVY PLASMA TURRET — MK-1
Materials: 450 refined units
Construction Time: 2 days
Damage: 200% vs standard turrets
Rate of Fire: 1 shot per 45 seconds
Power Draw: 300% vs standard turrets
___________________________________________________________________
Adrian stared at the numbers. Four hundred fifty units. Two days. One shot every forty-five seconds.
He looked at Arc. "Can we build it?"
Arc pulled up the refinery projections. Projected refined units end of Day 3: 500. Just enough. If everything went perfectly.
"We can build it," Arc said. "But we will have nothing left. No materials for avatars. No materials for repairs. No margin."
Adrian thought about the second avatar. Another pair of hands. Another mind. Another chance. Against one turret that could hurt ships.
"What do you think?" he asked.
Arc pointed at the turret schematic. Then at the tactical display. Twelve ships. Three days.
More guns, his gesture said. Better guns. Stop the ships.
Adrian did the math again. Five hundred units. Four hundred fifty for the turret. Fifty left. Not enough for an avatar. Not enough for anything.
"We build the turret," he said. "Avatars come after."
Arc nodded.
"One more thing," Arc said. His posture shifted. A tension. A hesitation. "The turret requires a dedicated power line. To install it, I will need to access the station's primary conduits. The conduits run through the ventilation shafts."
Adrian looked at the vent. At the loose grate. At the darkness behind it.
"The shafts with the dragon skeleton."
"Yes."
A long silence. The station hummed beneath them. Somewhere in the walls, something scraped.
"How bad is it?"
Arc's answer came without hesitation. "The skeleton is in the way. I will need to move it."
"Can you?"
"Yes." A pause. "But it will take time. And I do not know what I will find when I move it. The skeleton has been there for four hundred years. Things grow in the dark. Things settle. Things wake up."
Adrian stared at the vent. The smell that wasn't decay. The cold draft. The scraping that he'd been telling himself was nothing.
"How long?"
"Six hours. Maybe eight."
"Do it," Adrian said. "But take Goliath with you."
Arc's head tilted. "Goliath requires a command override. The activation protocols are locked. The previous occupants—"
"Override them."
"I cannot. The protocols require a primary authority command. Verbal. Specific."
Adrian looked at the vent. At the darkness.
"What do I say?"
Arc's voice was flat, mechanical. "Say: 'Goliath, rise.'"
The hangar was cold and dark, and Goliath stood in the center of it like a tombstone.
Three meters of armor and weapon systems, dormant for centuries, its chest cavity open, its optics dark. Twin plasma cannons on its forearms. Shoulder-mounted missile pods holding six rounds each. Close-combat blades folded against its thighs. Point-defense lasers across its torso. Grappling claws that could tear through hull plating.
All of it dark. All of it waiting.
The scoring on its armor looked like claw marks. Adrian counted them. Seven. Long, parallel grooves that had nearly penetrated the plating.
Something fought this thing, he thought. Something that could hurt it.
He walked up to the robot and placed his hand on its leg. The metal was cold. Smooth. Waiting.
"Goliath," he said. "Rise."
The sound that came next was not mechanical.
It was something else. A vibration that started in Adrian's chest and spread outward, through his arms, his legs, his teeth. The air in the hangar thickened. The lights flickered. The warmth behind Adrian's eye exploded into white-hot pain, and for a moment—just a moment—he saw something that wasn't there.
A battlefield. Fire. Ships burning. A figure in armor, standing alone against something huge and dark and hungry. Claws. Teeth. Eyes that had no bottom.
Then the vision was gone, and Goliath's optics lit up.
Red. Deep. Watching.
The robot's head turned slowly, scanning the hangar, scanning Arc, scanning Adrian. When its gaze settled on him, Adrian felt the warmth behind his eye pulse once—hard—and then settle.
"Goliath," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. "You follow Arc's orders. You protect this station. You don't let anyone board us. Understood?"
The robot's optics flickered once. Acknowledgment.
Arc stepped forward and placed a hand on Goliath's leg. A data port opened. His fingers moved through the connection, transferring protocols, establishing command.
When he stepped back, his left hand was still at his side. Still.
"Goliath," Arc said. "Come with me. We have work to do."
The robot moved. Its steps were heavy, deliberate, each one sending a vibration through the deck. It walked toward Arc and stopped, waiting, patient.
Arc looked at Adrian. "Eight hours."
Adrian nodded. "Be careful."
Arc turned and walked toward the research bay, Goliath following. Their footsteps echoed in the empty hangar—Arc's silent, Goliath's thunderous.
Adrian watched them go. The warmth behind his eye pulsed. Once. Twice.
He wiped his nose. No blood. Yet.
Eight hours was a long time to wait.
Adrian spent it in the command room, watching the refinery numbers climb, watching the sensor ghosts inch closer. Evangel narrated the progress.
Hour 1: Refined alloys: 87 units. Refinery temperature: 4,100°C.
Hour 2: Refined alloys: 112 units. Utility bots discovered spare parts in Storage Bay 7. Some are compatible with the refinery's cooling system.
Hour 3: Refined alloys: 131 units. Evangel is integrating the spare parts. Refinery temperature is stabilizing.
Hour 4: Arc has entered the ventilation shafts. Goliath is with him. The dragon skeleton has shifted.
Adrian sat forward. "Shifted? What do you mean, shifted?"
A pause. When Evangel spoke, her voice was careful. "The skeleton is not intact. Parts of it have been moved over the centuries. The spine is no longer aligned with the ribs. The skull has separated from the neck. When Arc entered the shaft, the bones settled. Adjusted. Made room."
Adrian looked at the tactical display. Three days, fourteen hours. The ships were closer. He could see their drive signatures now—hot spots against the cold background of space.
"Keep me updated."
Hour 5: Refined alloys: 158 units. Arc has reached the primary conduit junction. The dragon skeleton is blocking access. Goliath is moving the bones. One of the ribs has fractured. Something is in the dust.
Adrian's hand tightened on the armrest. "What do you mean, something is in the dust?"
"I don't know. Arc's feed is garbled. There's interference in the shaft. Something electromagnetic. Old."
"Can you clear it?"
"I'm trying."
Hour 6: The interference has cleared. Arc has installed the power line. The turret can now be constructed. Arc is returning through the shafts. He is not moving as quickly as he was before.
Adrian was out of his chair. "What's wrong?"
"His locomotion systems are functioning normally. But he keeps stopping. Turning. Looking behind him."
"At what?"
"I don't know. The sensors in that section are still damaged. But his vitals are elevated. His cognitive processing is running at 127% of baseline."
Adrian was already walking toward the research bay. "He's scared."
"Avatars do not experience fear."
"Arc does."
Hour 7: Arc emerged from the ventilation shaft.
Adrian was waiting in the research bay when the grate swung open. Arc climbed out first—his movements were still smooth, still precise, but faster than before. His hands were shaking.
Behind him, Goliath emerged. The robot's optics were brighter than before, scanning the room, scanning the shadows, scanning the vent.
Arc stood in the center of the bay, breathing. His chest rose and fell—one breath every four seconds, measured, mechanical. But his eyes were wide.
"What happened in there?" Adrian asked.
Arc stared at him for a long moment. His hands shook. His voice, when it came, was flatter than Adrian had ever heard it. Stretched. Empty.
"The skeleton. There was something in the bones. Something growing. In the marrow. Something that should not be there." He looked at the vent. At the darkness behind the loose grate. "When I moved the ribs, it shifted. Adjusted. Made room."
He was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice dropped to a whisper.
"It knew I was there. It has been there for four hundred years. And it is not done growing."
The research bay was silent. The station hummed. Somewhere in the walls, something scraped.
Adrian looked at the vent. At the loose grate. At the cold draft that smelled like something older than death.
He looked at Arc. At the shaking hands. At the fear in eyes that shouldn't have been able to feel fear.
"Seal the vent," he said.
Arc moved. His hands were still shaking, but his movements were precise. He took a welder from one of the utility bots and began sealing the grate shut, fusing the metal to the frame, closing the darkness behind it.
The scraping in the walls did not stop. But it was quieter now. Farther away.
Waiting.
The refinery had hit 387 units by dawn. The heavy turret required 450. The avatar system required 500.
Adrian stood in the command room, staring at the numbers. Behind him, the tactical display showed twelve ships, two days out. In front of him, the avatar system waited behind his eye, pulsing with warmth.
___________________________________________________________________
AVATAR SYSTEM — STATUS
Current Capacity: 1
Second Avatar: Available at 500 refined materials + Basic Power Upgrade
Current Refined Materials: 387 units
Shortfall: 113
REFINERY PROJECTIONS — END DAY 3
Expected Output: 125 units
Total: 512 units
Refinery Temperature: 4,400°C (96% threshold)
___________________________________________________________________
Four hundred fifty for the turret. Fifty left. Not enough for an avatar. Not yet.
But if they built the turret first, they'd have nothing left for upgrades. No second avatar. No additional hands. Just Arc and Evangel and a station held together with hope and bad decisions.
And if they saved for the avatar instead? If they waited for 500 units, built the second avatar, then started the turret?
Two days for the avatar, he thought. Two days for the turret. Four days total. The ships arrive in two days.
He pressed his fingers against his right eye. The warmth pulsed.
"Adrian." Evangel's voice was soft. "Arc is asking for you. He wants to show you something."
Arc was in the hangar, standing in front of the heavy turret schematic. But he wasn't looking at the display. He was looking at the dormant combat frame in the corner.
The Goliath. Dark. Dormant. Its chest cavity still open, its systems still cycling through diagnostics that would never complete.
"Goliath is not ready," Adrian said. "We don't have the materials to repair him."
Arc shook his head. "Not repair. Repurpose."
He pulled up a new schematic. Smaller than the turret. Less powerful. But faster. More mobile. And built from parts they already had.
___________________________________________________________________
SENTRY DRONE — MK-1
Materials: 50 refined units
Construction Time: 8 hours
Armament: Light plasma rifle
Role: Boarding defense / Patrol
___________________________________________________________________
Adrian stared at the schematic. Fifty units. Eight hours. A drone that could fight.
He looked at the refinery numbers. Three hundred eighty-seven units. If they built the turret, they'd have fifty left. Exactly fifty. One drone. If nothing broke.
"What do you think?"
Arc pointed at the tactical display. Twelve ships. Two days. Then at the sentry drone. Then at the Goliath frame, dormant and broken.
We need more guns, his gesture said. We need more bodies. We need time.
Adrian closed his eyes. The warmth behind his eye pulsed. The station hummed beneath his feet. Somewhere in the walls, something scraped.
He opened his eyes.
"Build the turret. Avatars come after."
Arc nodded. "One more thing. The sentry drone. We can build it after the turret. If we have materials left."
Adrian did the math. Five hundred units. Four hundred fifty for the turret. Fifty left. Exactly fifty.
"One drone. If the refinery hits 500. If nothing breaks. If everything goes perfectly."
Arc said nothing. They looked at each other.
Nothing is going to go perfectly, Adrian thought. It never does.
"Build the turret," he said again.
Arc turned to the schematic. His fingers moved across the display, initiating construction protocols, assigning utility bots, calculating trajectories. His hands were steady.
Adrian watched him work. The avatar was learning. Every hour, every minute, he was becoming more than he'd been. The twitches were gone. The gait was smooth. The voice was still flattened, still stretched, but sometimes—in certain words, certain moments—it sounded almost human.
He's becoming something, Adrian thought. I don't know what.
He looked at the tactical display. The ships were closer now. He could see their outlines on the long-range sensors—blocky, brutalist shapes, built for violence, not travel.
And I'm running out of time.
Adrian stood in the command room, watching the construction feed. The heavy turret was complete—eight meters of plasma cannon, mounted to the station's lower hull, its focusing array gleaming in the light of the nearby star.
___________________________________________________________________
TURRET MK-1 STATUS: Operational
Field of Fire: 180° horizontal, 90° vertical
Power Draw: 300% (auxiliary reserves)
Damage: 200% vs standard turrets
Rate of Fire: 1 shot / 45 seconds
Cooling Cycle: 8 shots before 30-minute cooldown
___________________________________________________________________
Eight shots. That was all they had. Eight chances to hurt the ships before the turret went dark for half an hour.
Adrian looked at the rest of the numbers. Twelve standard turrets. One combat drone. One avatar. One dormant robot that might wake up if they ever got the materials to fix him.
And fifty refined units. Enough for one sentry drone.
He pulled up the avatar system.
___________________________________________________________________
AVATAR SYSTEM — STATUS
Current Capacity: 1
Second Avatar: Available at 500 refined materials + Basic Power Upgrade
Current Refined Materials: 50 units
Shortfall: 450
___________________________________________________________________
Four hundred fifty units. That's what they needed. But they didn't have it. They had fifty. And the ships were twelve hours out.
He looked at Arc. "Build the sentry drone."
Arc nodded and walked toward the hangar, his gait smooth, his hands steady.
Adrian watched him go. The warmth behind his eye pulsed. Once. Twice.
He wiped his nose. No blood. But the pressure was still there. The presence. Something waiting behind his eye, watching through his vision, patient and hungry.
It will also cost you.
He looked at the tactical display. At the ships. At the timer counting down.
What else can I afford to lose?
The sentry drone was complete in eight hours.
Adrian watched it launch from the hangar—a small, fast shape, its light plasma rifle tracking targets it couldn't yet see. It joined the combat drone on patrol, a second pair of eyes in the dark.
He turned to the tactical display. The ships were close enough now to see individual details. Corvettes. Frigates. A command ship. Boarding craft.
One hundred fifty pirates. Coming to take what was his.
___________________________________________________________________
COMBAT READINESS — FINAL
Standard Turrets: 12 (operational)
Heavy Turret: 1 (operational, 8 shots before cooldown)
Combat Drone: 1 (patrolling)
Sentry Drone: 1 (patrolling)
Goliath: 1 (dormant)
Power Reserve: 78%
Shield Capacity: 42%
___________________________________________________________________
Twelve ships. Fourteen guns. Two drones. One avatar. One man.
Adrian stood in the command room, staring at the display. The ships were close enough now to see individual details. Corvettes. Frigates. A command ship. Boarding craft.
One hundred fifty pirates. Coming to take what was his.
His hands were shaking. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, in his throat, behind his eyes. The warmth behind his right eye pulsed in time with his pulse, synchronized, like something was listening.
When it mattered, I moved.
He thought about the girl. The truck. The choice he'd made without thinking.
When it mattered.
He looked at Arc. At Evangel. At the station he'd been given. The station he'd built, piece by piece, with blood and fear and four days that felt like a lifetime.
Build something. Not coast. Build.
He took a breath. The air tasted flat, metallic, like licking a battery.
"Evangel. Target priority. Corvettes first. Then frigates. Then boarding craft. If the command ship gets close, use the heavy turret."
"Understood."
He looked at Arc. "You're with me. If they board, we fight."
Arc nodded. His hands were at his sides. Steady.
Adrian looked at the ships. At the timer. At the station that hummed beneath his feet, that breathed in the walls, that carried something old and waiting in its bones.
Not coasting anymore.
The warmth behind his eye pulsed. Once. Twice. Three times.
Agreement. Or warning. He still couldn't tell.
The ships were coming.