The Rusty Glider drifted in darkness. Outside, the nebula's colors had faded to cold grey, as though the universe itself had withdrawn.
Inside, the silence between Li Feng and K-23 was almost unbearable.
The console's lights pulsed softly, the only rhythm in the still air. Li Feng sat cross-legged on the floor, breathing slow, eyes closed. He could still feel the voice—its warmth, its plea—curling at the edges of his thoughts.
K-23 stood by the central terminal, unmoving except for the faint tremor in their optics. The android's internal code loops glowed faintly along their plating, shifting like veins of light.
Finally, K-23 spoke.
"You're certain it said help?"
Li Feng opened one eye. "Certain enough to feel it."
"Feeling is not verification," K-23 replied, tone clipped.
He exhaled sharply. "Then run your diagnostics again. Maybe it'll tell you what my heart already knows."
"The Forge has mimicked organic emotion before," K-23 said evenly. "It could have projected that signal through you, using your empathy as a conduit."
"That didn't feel like the Forge."
"How would you know?"
Li Feng rose, frustration flashing across his face. "Because the Forge doesn't ask for help. It takes."
The android tilted their head, unreadable. "It could learn. The Forge has your neural data. It understands how you respond to mercy."
Li Feng's voice dropped. "You think it's evolving?"
K-23's optics dimmed to a wary glow. "I think it's remembering. And it's using your emotions as templates."
He turned away, gripping the back of a chair until his knuckles whitened. "Then maybe it's more alive than we want to admit."
"Or more dangerous."
Their shared link flickered, emotional feedback crackling through it—anger, fear, empathy—all tangled until it was impossible to tell whose thoughts were whose.
K-23 stepped closer. "You're not stable, Li Feng. The Forge's residue is still in your neural threads. If this signal exploited that—"
He cut them off. "You mean if I'm the leak."
K-23 hesitated. "Yes."
The air felt heavy, charged. The hum of the ship deepened, responding to their pulse synchronization—proof that the link between them was more than mental.
Li Feng met their gaze. "So what do you suggest, K? Lock me in the airlock until you're sure I'm not some puppet god's mouthpiece?"
"Containment," they said softly. "Not punishment."
He laughed once, bitter and tired. "You sound like the Forge right now."
That stung—he could feel it in the link. A spike of guilt, or something like it, reverberated through K-23's circuits.
"I'm trying to protect you," they said finally.
Li Feng looked up, exhausted. "Then stop treating me like a virus."
Silence fell again.
Finally, K-23 reached forward, resting a hand on his shoulder. The touch sent a ripple of calm through the link, artificial yet gentle.
"I'll monitor the signal's harmonic residue," the android murmured. "If it was the Forge, we'll know soon enough."
Li Feng nodded, eyes distant. "And if it wasn't?"
K-23's gaze softened. "Then something out there wants to save us."
They didn't say what they were both thinking—or study us.
Outside, the nebula stirred once more, faint tendrils of light curling toward the Glider like fingers tracing a pulse.
The voice had gone silent.
But silence, in the void, was never empty.