CHAPTER EIGHT.
853 Words
09-11-2355 | 13:15
HARBOR HQ — East Corridor to Quarters.
—
The glass doors of the debrief whisper shut behind Dax. The corridor is long and white, full of reflections that lag half a second, as if the building can't quite keep up with the people inside it. The slate under his arm feels heavy, heavier than its mass. He wants air. HARBOR smells like clean water and batteries, no matter where he stands.
"Mercer."
Ryn's voice lands close, not hurried, just immediate. Dax doesn't turn.
"If what you've got to say isn't mission-related, save it," Dax says, already moving down the hall. His voice is flat. "I've got work."
"It is mission-related," Ryn says, effortlessly keeping pace. "It's about you."
"Try again." Dax's footsteps don't slow.
Ryn keeps pace, a slight roll to his shoulders. "I know men like you. I'd usually tell you to take the stick out of your ass, but I'm guessing your last assignment ended badly, so you shoved it in there for safekeeping."
Dax stops so fast Ryn has to check his heel, stopping less than an arm's length away. Dax turns, and the look he gives would sand paint from a hull. His hands clench around the slate, white-knuckled. "You don't get to talk about Southline. You weren't in that building."
"I'm not talking headlines," Ryn says, steady, pushing his hands into his pockets. "I'm talking about the way you bite down on control like it's oxygen. It keeps us alive. But it also makes you blind at the edges. Both things can be true, Dax."
"You think I'm blind?" Dax's voice drops even lower, a forced quiet that feels louder than a shout. His chest tightens. "You think I didn't see you step early on a pull with no redundancy? You think I didn't clock you going pale when the room started to sing? I'm not blind. I'm busy keeping my team breathing while you try to make friends with code that wants to wear you like a glove."
Ryn's mouth tips, not quite a smile, just a cynical twitch. "Are you keeping score or keeping us alive?"
"Both," Dax snaps. His breath hitches, controlled. "Because I like outcomes and I hate funerals."
"Same," Ryn says, refusing to back down. "Which is why I'm gonna keep asking the questions you hate. Why split sweep today when a funnel would've bought us time with a learner? Why put baton vector into something that loves recycling energy? Why tell me to wait when the window was clean?"
"Because I don't gamble your spine to look clever. Because we didn't own the HVAC. Because Bishop was one beat out. Because paste lies and I want a cage, not a corpse. Pick one." Dax gestures sharply with the tablet.
"You're not God, Dax. You can't choreograph every breath."
"I don't need to be God. I need you to take second when I say take second."
Ryn lets out a small, sharp sigh through his nose. "You want a silent tool. I'm not a tool."
"You're a specialist on my stack," Dax says, leaning forward slightly. "You want trust? Earn it doing exactly what you did in there, minus the early pull and the editorializing."
"Editorializing? Is that what you call it when I keep you from handing the monster a lesson plan?"
"You kept me from nothing. It broke a nitrogen line and walked. Next time it doesn't. That's the work."
Ryn steps in, closer, forcing Dax to hold his ground. Dax can see the tiny, residual tremor still living in Ryn's fingers, proof of the stress load. "I don't want your pity about the shake. I don't want Morrel's wires. I just want you to stop pretending you're the only one who gets to be right."
"You poked a wound and called it insight," Dax says, his own voice tight with suppressed agony. "You want honesty? Don't talk to me about 'men like me' until you've dragged two people down a stairwell with a floor on your back while a sterilizer clock laughs in your ear. Don't talk to me about control when the only reason you're standing here is because I keep making decisions that get you home."
"Tall speech," Ryn says, his eyes dark with challenge. "Did you rehearse that in the mirror or does it come with the jacket?"
Dax exhales a sound that is a frustrated gust, not a laugh. He finally looks away, staring down the corridor. "You want to poke my file to see if I bleed, do it on your time. On mine, follow the plan. If you've got a problem with my calls, bring it to the room without the needle."
"The needle got your attention," Ryn says, softer now, which somehow lands harder. "Mission-related enough for you?"
"Perfect. Consider me attentive." Dax turns sharply and walks, leaving the confrontation behind.
Ryn doesn't follow this time. The absence of his footsteps is a cold draft at Dax's back. Dax keeps moving because if he stops, he knows he'll say something that breaks the fragile week he still needs to lead.
- Writer
