Silence.
It was the true silence after a disaster, more deafening than the alarm had been. It was the sound of consequences, cold and absolute.
Kaelen knelt on the grimy metal decking, the unstable purple-white light of his hand flickering across the unconscious form of Jax. The tendrils of darkness had receded, but the memory of their power was seared into the crushed lockers, into the air, and into the faces of the people watching him.
Preceptor Valerius did not smile, but a grim satisfaction settled in the lines around his mouth. "The empirical evidence is conclusive. The contaminant is volatile, predatory, and has now demonstrated direct hostility. Quarantine Protocol Seven is now in effect." He gestured to two of his Gleaner soldiers, who stepped forward with reinforced stasis cuffs.
Elara moved, a single, fluid step that placed her between the soldiers and Kaelen. Her face was a carefully controlled mask, but a storm raged in her eyes. "He stays."
Valerius's eyebrow twitched. "Captain, your man is injured by the very asset you are protecting. Your sentiment is noted, but it is a luxury the human race can no longer afford. Stand aside."
"My sentiment," Elara said, her voice low and venomous, "is that he is my asset, on my ship, and his debt is to me. He is not a specimen for your Vault. He is a tool, and a faulty one does not get thrown to the scrapers; it gets fixed." She turned her head slightly, her gaze slicing towards Lyra, who was already checking Jax's pulse. "Will he live?"
Lyra nodded, her face pale. "Concussion. Cracked ribs. He'll be out for a while, but he'll live." Her eyes met Kaelen's, and for the first time, he saw no scientific curiosity, only a flicker of fear. It cut deeper than Jax's hostility ever had.
"This changes nothing," Elara declared, turning back to Valerius. "The incident is contained."
"An optimistic assessment," Valerius countered. "One my superiors will not share. The Compact's mandate is clear. We will secure the asset."
"And my mandate is the survival of this convoy," Elara shot back. "And this asset just proved he can navigate the Weep and pinpoint a Ghost Liner. His value has been demonstrated. His instability is a technical problem. One we are equipped to solve."
A new tension entered the standoff. Valerius was a man of absolute rules. Elara was a woman of fluid opportunity. They were speaking different languages.
Kael, who had been silently observing, finally spoke, his dry rasp cutting through the tension. "Preceptor. A proposal."
All eyes turned to the gaunt Artificer.
"Your goal is to neutralize the threat and acquire data," Kael said, his whirring optical device fixed on Valerius. "Our goal is to retain the asset's utility. These are not mutually exclusive. You want to take him to your sterile lab and dissect him. You will learn how he died. We propose to learn how he lives. To engineer a control mechanism."
Valerius was silent for a long moment. "You are proposing an unsanctioned, field-level study of a Category-3 hazard."
"I am proposing a field test," Kael corrected. "With safeguards. You leave a monitoring team. Two of your people. They observe, they collect data. They have the authority to enact quarantine if our methods fail. In return, you get a continuous stream of live data on the mutation's progression and its interactions with the Weep—data you could never get from a corpse on a slab. And we get the chance to turn a liability into the most powerful navigator and salvager this world has ever seen."
The offer hung in the air, a dangerous gamble. It was a concession of sovereignty, an admission of risk, but it was also a masterstroke. It appealed to Valerius's core nature as a scientist and a preserver. A live subject was infinitely more valuable than a dead one.
Kaelen listened, a cold knot tightening in his stomach. He was no longer a person. He was a subject. A field test. The "Bitter Pill" was not just the consequences of his actions; it was the reality of his new existence.
After what felt like an eternity, Valerius gave a curt nod. "A provisional agreement. Specialists Cora and Finn will remain. They will have full access and monitoring authority. You have one lunar cycle. If the asset's volatility is not reduced by seventy percent or if there is another hostile event, the Compact will assume control by any means necessary." He turned, his gaze sweeping over the damaged corridor one last time. "Do not make me regret this, Captain. The cost of your ambition will be measured in lives, starting with your own."
Without another word, he and his soldiers retreated, leaving two behind. A man and a woman, their mirrored faceplates reflecting the scene of Kaelen's failure.
The moment the Gleaners were gone, Elara's controlled mask shattered. She turned on Kaelen, her fury a physical force.
"On your feet," she snarled.
He stood, his legs weak.
She didn't hit him. She didn't need to. Her words were blows enough. "That little display of self-pity just cost me. It cost me my first officer's health. It cost me my sovereignty to the Gleaners. It cost me leverage." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper that was only for him, laced with a venom that made him flinch. "You listen to me, you walking bomb. The next time you lose control, the Gleaners won't be the ones to take you. I'll put a bolt in your skull myself and hand your corpse to Valerius as a courtesy. Your debt just became a life debt. You owe me everything. And you will pay it back in obedience and utility. Is that understood?"
There was no room for argument. No plea for understanding. He was a tool that had damaged another tool, and the foreman was outlining the new, brutal rules of the workshop.
"Yes, Captain," he whispered, the words tasting like ash.
"Good." She turned to Lyra and Kael. "Get Jax to the med-bay. Then get to work. I want a solution. Not in a month. Now."
The next forty-eight hours were a descent into a new kind of hell. Kaelen was moved to a sealed storage room deep in the Kronos, converted into a makeshift lab and cell. The two Gleaner observers, Cora and Finn, were his constant shadows. They never removed their helmets. They spoke only in clipped, technical phrases to Kael or Lyra, recording everything with the sensors on their suits.
Kael and Lyra worked with a frantic, sleep-deprived intensity. Their approach was not one of healing, but of engineering. Kaelen was their malfunctioning machine.
They tried a damping sleeve made of lead-lined polymer. It muted the glow but made the throbbing, painful heat within his hand intensify until he was sweating and nauseous.
They tried injecting him with a chemical compound derived from Dead Zone lichen, meant to suppress psychic activity. It left him disoriented and weak, but the first time he felt a surge of panic, his hand still flared, shattering the beaker Lyra was holding.
They hooked him up to the Kronos's main generator, theorizing they could "ground" the excess energy. The feedback surge blew out a power conduit on two decks and plunged the section into darkness.
Failure. Failure. Failure.
Through it all, Kaelen endured. He was poked, prodded, scanned, and injected. He spent hours focusing on controlling his breathing, on suppressing his emotions, on building mental walls. But the mutation was a part of him. It fed on his fear, his frustration, his very heartbeat. Trying to suppress it was like trying to hold his breath forever.
It was during the third night, during another failed meditation session under the silent gaze of Cora and Finn, that Lyra had a different idea. She was examining the readouts from a psionic sensor, her brow furrowed.
"We're fighting it," she murmured, more to herself than to Kael. "We're treating the symptom, not the system. The Weep-Sync isn't an infection. It's a connection. We're trying to sever a nerve. Maybe... maybe we shouldn't be trying to sever it."
Kael looked up from a schematics slate. "What are you proposing?"
"Channeling," Lyra said, her eyes alight with a new, dangerous spark. "Not suppression. If the energy cannot be contained, perhaps it can be directed. Siphoned off. Given a purpose."
She began sketching frantically on a slate. "A conduit. A device that interfaces directly with the crystalline matrix. It would act as a regulator, a release valve. When the energy builds to a critical level, the conduit activates, bleeding it off in a controlled, non-destructive manner."
Kael studied the sketch, his optical device whirring. "The risk is immense. A faulty conduit could amplify the energy. It could vaporize his arm. Or worse."
"It's a bigger risk to do nothing!" Lyra argued, her voice rising with passion. "The Gleaners are watching. Jax is in med-bay. We're out of time. This isn't about a cure anymore. This is about control. This is how we give him a fighting chance."
Their argument was interrupted by a low chime from the comms panel. Elara's voice, strained and tired, came through. "Kael. Lyra. My quarters. Now. We have a problem."
Kael and Lyra exchanged a worried glance. "Stay here," Kael ordered Kaelen, before following Lyra out, leaving him alone with the two silent Gleaner observers.
The silence in the room was oppressive. Kaelen looked at his hand, the crystals pulsing with a soft, malevolent light. He thought of Lyra's words. A conduit. A release valve. It was the first spark of hope he'd felt since the incident. It wasn't a path to being normal, but a path to not being a monster.
He didn't know how long he sat there before the door hissed open again. It was Lyra, her face grim.
"What is it?" Kaelen asked, his voice rough from disuse.
"The problem," Lyra said, her shoulders slumped. "The Gleaner observers just filed their first progress report. Or lack thereof. Valerius has responded. He's moving up the timeline."
A cold dread filled Kaelen. "How much?"
"He's giving us one week," Lyra said, her voice hollow. "One week to show significant progress, or he's declaring our experiment a failure. He's already prepping a containment team."
The Bitter Pill was proving to be a poison. And it was working faster than anyone had anticipated.