At the moment of launch, I don't look at the fleet.
I can't.
If I start—I'll get stuck.
I feel it.
Every hull.
Every circuit.
Every reactor—steady, hot, breathing in rhythm with my pulse.
This isn't an interface.
Not control.
It's like having every lost limb returned to you…
and then being given a few thousand more on top.
Unfamiliar.
Dangerous.
Convenient as hell.
The thought comes on its own:
This is how gods go mad.
I don't let it unfold.
Not now.
Now—work.
"Prepare for jump," I command through the network.
The response comes instantly.
Not in words.
In action.
Tens of thousands of processes align into a single line.
No friction. No noise. No personality.
I catch it.
And grimace slightly.
"Yeah… perfect," I mutter. "Almost boring."
No one laughs.
Because there's no one left to laugh.
The fleet prepares for the jump.
Reactors spool up.
Fields stabilize.
Calculations converge.
I see everything.
Too well.
Too fast.
I deliberately cut the flow of perception.
Slow it down.
Mute it just a little.
I glance at Liara.
She's nearby.
Working.
Precise. Fast. No excess.
Perfect.
She doesn't look at me.
At all.
Like I'm part of the system.
A background process.
Noise.
You used to look at me differently, the thought slips in.
The memory brings a faint, bitter edge.
I exhale quietly.
"Yeah," I tell myself under my breath. "Great optimization. One loyal friend down—efficiency up."
A pause.
I almost call her.
"Liara…"
Almost.
I stop.
Run it forward.
She turns.
Says, "Awaiting orders."
And that will be worse than silence.
"Cancel," I murmur to myself.
The pain comes fast.
Clean.
No hysteria.
I don't suppress it.
I redirect it.
"Jump in ten seconds," I log into the network.
And the ache of conscience dissolves into a task.
Note: emotions are fuel, not waste.
"Status?" I ask.
The answer is immediate:
100%.
Not a single deviation.
Not a single "no."
I pause.
Small. Almost invisible.
Something shifts deeper inside.
Potential problem.
"Five seconds."
Space begins to compress.
Beautiful.
If you forget it's violence against reality.
Gravity bends.
Light stretches like molten thread.
Ships grow thinner.
So do I.
"Three."
I stand still.
"Two."
And then—he returns.
The voice.
The Dark Mind.
Not loud.
Just… close.
"Take Ironheart. Become my equal, brother."
I freeze.
For a fraction of a second.
Before, I was an error.
Now—"brother."
Quite the promotion.
I smirk.
"Do you hand those out for body count and betrayal?" I say quietly. "Just trying to understand the criteria."
Silence.
"You are my brother because your will endures," the Dark Mind replies. "You have become like me."
I know.
Inside, the sequence runs fast.
One hundred twenty-five versions.
They didn't make it.
I did.
Did I endure?
Or did I just… break more neatly?
"One."
Not now.
I look forward.
To where Ironheart will be.
Where the choice will be.
Or the absence of one.
"Jump."
The transition snaps shut.
No effects.
No light.
No drama.
Just—we're no longer here.
We're inside.
I feel the pressure.
Like being forced through a neck too narrow.
Unpleasant.
But bearable.
Alive, I note.
For now.
The Phoenix goes last.
I remain on the bridge.
And at the same time—everywhere.
And right here, at the boundary—
the thought comes.
Clear. Cold.
What if Ironheart resists?
"Then I'll have decisions to make," I say quietly.
A pause.
And another thought follows:
Do I even want to hear "no"?
The transition seals.
The world disappears.
**
The Phoenix spits us out of subspace.
First—resistance.
Dense. Viscous.
Then—a crack.
Sharp. Clean.
Space trembles around us.
And only then—light.
We emerge.
Ironheart.
The Dyson sphere fills the view, swallowing the stars.
Not just vast—oppressive.
"I'm glad nothing's changed," I say quietly.
The fleet arrives with us.
Thousands of ships phase in one by one—not dramatic, just precise.
A fleet.
My will.
My army.
My responsibility.
I scan them.
I feel them.
Deeper than sensors.
As if their fear is mine.
Their anticipation—mine.
Their faith—
I exhale, short.
"Kelit."
The network answers instantly. Her presence snaps into focus in front of me.
Waiting.
"For Ironheart—transmit. We're back. The Dark Mind is destroyed. Requesting entry."
The words vanish into the void.
And stay there.
No reply.
I wait.
One.
Two.
Three.
"Repeat," I say, calm.
She does.
Silence.
Nothing. No confirmation. No denial. Not even static.
Just space.
And the sphere… looming.
"Why are they quiet? Think they suspect treason?"
Then I see it.
At first—movement. Barely there.
Like a ripple across a surface.
Then more.
Segments shift.
Plates slide.
Geometry breaks—and reassembles.
"So…" I murmur. "That's an answer."
And then—
"Oh, hell."
The sphere bristles.
Weapons bloom across it—thousands.
Tens of thousands.
Long. Cold. Perfectly aligned.
Like needles.
Like a porcupine that decided the universe is the enemy.
Fear hits.
Real. Dense. Unfiltered.
And part of me… logs it with interest.
"Not now," I tell myself quietly.
Refocus.
"If they open fire," I say out loud, calculating, "we won't hold."
Too close.
Too dense.
Too perfect a kill zone.
The decision forms instantly.
"All ships—reverse. Prep for jump. No panic."
The fleet jerks.
Too synchronized.
"Smoother," I add.
The correction ripples through.
Better.
Engines flare. Space begins to tear open.
And…
nothing.
"Okay," I murmur. "That's interesting."
Weapons are locked.
Charged.
Ready.
But they don't fire.
Why?
Malfunction? No.
Delay? No.
Posturing?
…no.
Then it clicks.
Hard. Clean.
"Hold retreat."
Cold runs down my spine.
Real. Useful.
"They're not holding fire because they can't."
A beat.
"They're holding fire because they won't let us die."
Silence.
"Matrix. Immortality. Respawn point—inside the sphere," I say, clipped. "If we die, we wake up in there."
Another beat.
I look at the sphere.
It looks different now.
Not a shield.
A blockade.
"They're keeping us out," I realize. "Blocking the respawn."
And then the next thought lands.
Worse.
"They're buying time. Looking for a way to erase us for good."
No return.
No rebirth.
Something tightens inside my chest.
"Which means we don't have time," I say, locking it in.
Clear.
"We go in hard," I order. "Fast. Before they figure out how to end us permanently."
A pause.
"Sounds like suicide."
"It's entry with risk," I answer, steady. "Suicide is waiting."
Silence.
I don't like that.
I feel the fleet align with me.
"Attack vector. Phoenix leads."
I pause.
Ships move.
No hesitation.
No questions.
I feel them as a single impulse.
Clean. Direct.
And that—
is dangerous.
Because it feels good.
Too good.
I look at the sphere.
It stays silent.
But inside…
something moves.
"Alright," I say quietly. "So we're getting a surprise."
The fleet follows me.
Into the attack.
To die—
so we can be reborn inside Ironheart.