The command deck felt smaller than it had any right to be, though it was one of the largest chambers aboard the riot ship. Screens glowed in layered arcs around us, displaying fractured telemetry from Mercury's dying surface and the scattered debris fields of what had once been our fleet. Emergency lighting pulsed along the ceiling in low amber tones, casting long shadows across the faces of pilots and officers who only hours ago had commanded legions. The air carried the metallic tang of overheated circuits and the faint, bitter residue of extinguished fires. Beneath it all lingered the sour scent of fear sweat soaked into armour, breath recycled too many times through filtration systems strained beyond design. The hum of the engines vibrated constantly through the floor, a low, continuous reminder that we were no longer standing on land but suspended over nothing.
I studied the orbital display, watching Mercury rotate slowly beneath us, its surface scarred and glowing where cities had burned. "We double back," I said finally, my voice steady even as my hands trembled at my sides. "We use Mercury's gravity well to sling ourselves toward Luna at full thrust. We'll circle from the blind spot and let inertia carry us. When we're hours out, we adjust with side thrusters and avoid igniting main engines until the last moment." The plan unfolded in my mind like a battlefield formation, a desperate gamble carved from physics and necessity. The pilots exchanged glances and nodded, fingers already dancing over consoles to calculate trajectory windows and fuel margins. The riot ship responded subtly beneath us, thrusters adjusting to prepare for the maneuver.
Diana stepped closer, her face pale but resolute in the console light. "What if they see us circling Mercury and dispatch a response team?" she asked, and I could hear the strain beneath her calm. I reached for her hand without hesitation, grounding both of us. "They'll expect us to run outward," I said, forcing logic over grief. "We circle from the outer blind arc. Mercury and Luna are closer in alignment right now. It's a narrow window, but it's ours. If we hesitate, we lose it." She studied my face for a long moment, searching for doubt, then squeezed my hand once in silent agreement.
I turned to Victor and Athena, Quentin's parents, who stood near the communications array. Their expressions were carved from exhaustion and calculation. "Can you send anything to your main body on Mars?" I asked. Victor exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the static flickering across his screens. "It's a void out there, son," he replied. "Worse than void. Something is wrapping our signals, refusing to let them pass. We can receive fragmented transmissions, but nothing leaves us." His words chilled me more than the vacuum outside. We were not only fleeing; we were isolated, contained. "Keep trying," I said quietly. "Anything. Any anomaly, any breach in whatever is blocking us." He nodded without promise.
Leaving the deck, I walked the corridor toward the rear compartments where the survivors gathered. The lights here were dimmer, flickering occasionally as power rerouted through damaged circuits. I found Sextus and Jabir seated against Gunish's massive wing, the familiar's scales absorbing and reflecting the low light in muted hues. Quentin leaned back between them, pale beneath streaks of dried blood. He had been silent since Father's death, pushing through pain with that stubborn brightness he always carried. Now, up close, I could see the tremor in his jaw and the unnatural sheen of sweat across his skin.
The smell hit me first sweet, rotten, unmistakable. Infection. The metallic scent of blood had turned sour, mingled with the decaying odor of tissue that should never have been left untreated. My stomach tightened. I did not hesitate. I fetched medical kits, blood rings, sterile operating tools, and a delta gun from the storage locker. The delta device was designed to accelerate cellular repair after trauma, but it required clean margins or it would seal rot inside living flesh. "Come here," I ordered gently. Quentin shook his head stubbornly, trying to stand. Sextus and Jabir exchanged a look before grabbing him firmly. I leapt forward and injected the sleeping agent into his neck before he could protest further.
We lowered him onto a makeshift operating platform near the bulkhead. As I stripped away his armor and peeled back the blood-soaked bandages, the smell intensified, thick and nauseating. Jabir turned his face slightly to the side, nostrils flaring, while Sextus clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened. The wound along Quentin's side was blackened at the edges, tissue already rotting at a speed I had never witnessed outside of poison or deliberate corruption. I worked quickly, scalpel slicing through necrotic flesh, metal picks extracting fragments embedded too deep for sight alone. Each cut released another wave of putrid heat into the air. I forced my breathing steady, ignoring the bile creeping into my throat.
The distant hum of engines mixed with the soft mechanical hiss of air filtration. Beyond the hull, I could hear faint tremors from stray debris striking our shields. Inside the chamber, all that existed was the rhythm of my hands and the silent prayer that I was not too late. Once the rot was cleared, I pressed the flash cauterizer to the open margins. The scent of burning flesh filled the compartment, acrid and final, but it was clean. After stabilizing the deeper tissue, I applied the delta sheets and activated the device. A faint blue glow spread across the wound, knitting cells together at accelerated speed. I leaned back only when the readings steadied and his breathing returned to a stable rhythm.
Jabir exhaled first, tension draining from his shoulders. Sextus lowered himself against Gunish once more, the familiar's wing folding protectively around them. "What are our chances of making Luna?" Jabir asked quietly, not looking at me. His voice carried the weight of someone calculating survival rather than glory. I wiped my hands and sat opposite them, feeling the fatigue settle into my bones. "It's either we make Luna or we die," I said plainly. "There is no middle path. Worrying about probabilities won't change them. We focus on what we can control trajectory, defense, and staying alive." The words sounded harsher than I intended, but they were the only truth left to offer.
I looked at them both and saw something stripped away childhood illusions, inherited certainty, the belief that our houses were untouchable. The defeat on their faces was not cowardice; it was the sobering realization that the world they had trained to rule no longer existed in the form they knew. The riot ship vibrated as we began the gravity sling maneuver, engines roaring louder as we dipped back toward Mercury's pull. The cold reality of war pressed against us from all sides, and in the dim corridor light our shadows stretched long and thin, like remnants of something larger that had already been lost.
For the first time since the battle began, there were no grand speeches, no vows of vengeance. Only the steady hum of a ship trying to outrun extinction and three brothers sitting in silence, understanding that survival itself had become the only dream left worth holding.