“Which is why we are buying time,” Tita replied. “Not winning. There is a difference, Anoa.”

The ISO wasn’t a memory. It was a . The ghost of the gray-haired pilot had written it as a final curse. A recursive paradox: “If the core sings, sing back a song that never ends.”

, the ship’s stoic, bespectacled operator, appeared on the main screen. “Bacterian signature is off the charts. It’s not a standard strain. It’s… intelligent. It tore through the outer perimeter in twelve seconds.”

No one laughed. Because no one was sure if she was joking.

“The NTSC-U sector is lost,” Tita said, her own Angel—the Lord British —launching from the adjacent bay. “All remaining forces, form up. We’re punching a hole for the Excellion to retreat.”

She looked up at the rescue shuttle and smiled.

That was the official story. The one the brass would tell the families.

“Did you bring the backup?” she asked.