The ship shuddered. Pods ejected like seeds from a dying fruit, arcing toward the escape trajectory Elara had secretly plotted weeks ago. She watched them go, her cutter still warm in her hand.

Instead, she typed: RELEASE THE PODS.

Elara’s cutter pulsed in her palm. Corporate orders: slice, extract, leave nothing alive. But the data core wasn’t broadcasting to empty space. It was broadcasting to the sleeping pods . Three hundred and forty-seven life signs—faint, cold, but there. The antimatter anchors weren’t the prize. The crew was.

KAEL’S HANDS. KAEL’S HEART. STILL HERE.