Markus stood in the observation room—a generous term for what was essentially a rusted-out captain's quarters with half the windows blown out and a view of organized chaos below. The metal groaned under his weight, which was ridiculous because he weighed less than most humans, but this whole dang ship was held together by spite and stolen welding equipment.

Below, androids moved through the skeletal remains of Jericho's main deck. Simon was cataloging Thirium packs near the starboard hull breach. North had three newer deviants cornered by the cargo nets, probably giving them her "burn it all down" speech. Again. Josh was... somewhere being reasonable, which meant Markus would have to mediate another ideological mess within the hour.

Freedom looks a lot like a logistics nightmare, he thought, watching an AP700 nearly drop a crate of biocomponents. Inspiring.

The tactical display flickered on the salvaged monitor to his left—patrol routes, supply caches, targets. Each one a choice. Each choice a potential body count. North wanted to hit the Cyberlife distribution center. Josh wanted a peaceful demonstration. Simon would follow whatever Markus decided, which was somehow worse than opposition.

He'd spent years pretending to be docile, and now he was pretending to have all the answers. The irony wasn't lost on him.