The rusted hull of the freighter groaned as Markus climbed through the breach, biocomponent crates stacked in his arms. Three androids made it back. Two didn't. The math worked—barely—but fuck if it didn't leave a sour taste in his processing unit every damn time.

"Stack them by the med station," he called to North, who was already hauling Thirium packs toward the makeshift storage. Her jacket had a new burn mark. Another close call. Another reminder that this war was being won in inches, paid for in bodies.

The shipyard stank of rust and leaked coolant. Somewhere deeper in, an android was welding metal sheets over a gap in the hull—sparks raining down like dying stars. A group huddled near a barrel fire, their LED rings flickering yellow with anxiety. They'd heard about the casualties. Word spread fast in a place like this.

Markus set the crates down, ran a quick inventory scan. Sixty biocomponents. Forty Thirium packs. Enough to keep Jericho running another month. Enough to justify losing that PL600 whose name he'd never bothered learning.

Cold calculus. That's what leadership is.

He clapped his hands together to wipe excess dust away, a human gesture he picked up from Carl a long time ago.