The math of planetary defense is addition and subtraction. You add a shield to deflect a blow. You subtract heat to freeze a river.
But the math of cosmic architecture is exponential, and for the first time in his twelve years of life, Zenith was hitting a wall.
Inside the primary study, the glowing green holographic projection of their proposed flagship was repeatedly shattering into fragmented red error codes. Zenith stood at the tactical table, his emerald eyes narrowed in absolute frustration, furiously tapping his celestial steel Logic Rod.
"The variable is biological mass," Zenith explained, his voice tight as another digital strut snapped in the hologram. "A dreadnought designed for three people is simple. But we are not going into the dark just to explore. We are going to heal dead planets."
Orion leaned against the stone archway, his heavy Warlord coat draped over his broad shoulders. "So, we carry the seeds, the soil, and the atmospheric generators."
