Atlas sat in the pilot's cradle, a molded seat lined with hardened foam and neural mesh, its contours familiar like a second spine.
The stars spilled beyond the cockpit glass in quiet glitter, unchanged from when he left Anhur Station, and yet they felt altered perhaps it was just him.
Time passed strangely out here, even when the chronometer kept steady.
With the course now locked toward Elnar V and EVA maintaining minimal auto-thrust, he had time. And time had a way of digging.
He didn't sleep immediately after launch. He rarely did.
Sleep brought memories, and memories were sharp things.
Atlas tapped a finger on the console, listening to the soft tick of his gloves on ceramic glass.
The logs from Central Command had been cleared, and a looped cycle of star maps now drifted lazily across the main holo-display.
The warfront on Elnar V flashed red.
Flashpoints blinked. Estimated casualty numbers tallied in cool digits beneath. It was all distant. Clean. Sanitized.
He leaned back and let the silence stretch, EVA's quiet hum the only presence in the room.
"Command said the Southern Plateau's been holding for six weeks now," he murmured aloud.
"That used to mean something."
EVA responded, voice crisp and emotionless.
"Southern Plateau resistance density has diminished by 13.8% in the last 12-day cycle. Probability of collapse within 20 days at current rates."
He let out a breath, slow. "Right. And then we send more sons and daughters to rebuild what's left. Just like Haedra-3. Just like Otho."
Silence.
Atlas closed his eyes. Behind the lids, flashes of light and dirt kicked up by boots. His hands clutched around a rifle, then shaking around a body someone else's, someone young.
There was fire in the sky. Screams echoing through broken comms.
It had been years since Haedra-3. They said peace had come. But peace was a temporary silence, not a solution.
He pressed his palms together, elbows on knees, forehead resting against interlaced fingers. "You know, EVA... I used to believe in all this. That we were part of something greater."
"Belief often coexists with idealism. Idealism is statistically fragile during prolonged conflict."
"Yeah," he whispered. "It breaks."
The cockpit dimmed slightly as they passed into a shadow of a distant gas giant.
Light haloed across one side of the hull, brushing the ship in deep crimson.
Atlas rose, stretching the knots from his spine. His steps across the metal grating were soft but deliberate.
He passed the closed hatch to the crew berth he never used and entered the storage hold.
There, tucked into the side locker beneath a secured crate of emergency fuel cells, lay a small, black case. Worn. Scuffed along the edges. He opened it with hesitation.
Inside was a faded photo, wrinkled at the corners.
A woman stood smiling hair braided over one shoulder, grease stains on her coverall, a weld tool in one hand. Her other arm wrapped tightly around Atlas' waist. Younger him. Eyes brighter. Cleaner.
He touched the edge of the image.
"Her name was Lia," he said aloud.
"Name registered: Lia Kael. No active records in Central Databank."
"She wouldn't be," he said. "She was there. On Haedra."
He didn't say the rest. Didn't need to.
He closed the case and returned it carefully.
That ghost could rest for now.
Back in the cockpit, he resumed his seat. Ahead lay stars and silence and the task at hand. Whatever else haunted him, there was still the mission.
Always the mission.
But tonight, the stars looked just a little more distant.