Arthur bursts from the command tent, moving with purpose.

  He crosses the dusty courtyard and slams a large red button.

  An emergency siren wails, harsh through the colony.

  One by one, colonists spill from autohomes and workstations—murmuring, glancing at one another. Slowly, the entire settlement gathers.

  Arthur climbs onto a crate, loudspeaker in hand.

  “Everyone—gather around.”

  He steps onto a table.

  “Byrand doesn’t think you need to hear this. I do.”

  Byrand storms toward him.

  “Get down from there. You are not in charge.”

  The murmuring thins, suspicion settling across the crowd.

  Arthur meets Byrand’s eyes.

  “Stop me.”

  Then he turns back to the colonists.

  “Daevos Industries dropped us here with substandard equipment,” he says.

  He gestures toward the wall.

  “The wall builder’s dead. Without a wall, raiders walk right in and kill us.”

  He points toward the recycler.

  “The water recycler could fail any day. What do you drink then?”

  His hand sweeps toward the fields.

  “Our farm bots are barely running. Food lasts only if we get the farms stable.”

  The crowd stirs—uneasy voices rising.

  “Who are you?” someone shouts.

  “What gives you the right?” another calls.

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  Arthur lowers his head, then sits on the edge of the table.

  “I’m Arthur.”

  He meets the man’s gaze.

  “No one told me I could say this — but here I am.”

  He scans the faces before him.

  “I’ve been places like this. Colder than you can imagine—so cold I thought my skin would shatter if I moved. Hungry enough to consider eating my own arm just to stop the pain.”

  He pauses, breathing steady.

  “You know what got me through it?”

  “Hard work!” someone yells from the back.

  Arthur nods faintly.

  “That got us halfway.”

  He points into the crowd.

  “What saved us was each other. We worked together. We put the group before ourselves.”

  A man near the front mutters,

  “I’m not working fields so some lazy bastard can eat.”

  Arthur steps closer, voice calm but firm.

  “You’re not listening. You farm, I fish. He builds. She cooks. We all eat—or none of us do.”

  The murmuring shifts, uncertainty rippling through the crowd.

  “We’ll do this the hard way,” Arthur continues.

  “But we’ll survive.”

  He sits back on the table.

  “First order of business—rationing.”

  A man scowls.

  “Ain’t no one telling me I can’t eat.”

  Arthur steps close enough that the man feels his presence.

  “No one’s saying you can’t eat.”

  He rests a hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “But one extra week of food could mean the difference between living and dying.”

  Sarah’s voice threads through his thoughts.

  “They’re listening. That matters.”

  Arthur gestures toward the recycler.

  “Water rationing stays. I know some of you have been breaking it.”

  He lets the silence stretch.

  “So we’re moving the water reservoir to the center of the compound.”

  “Why?” someone calls.

  Arthur’s voice hardens.

  “If you’re going to take more than your share—you’ll do it in front of everyone.”

  The crowd stills. Eyes lower.

  The shift is subtle—but it’s there.

  “Jef, get a team on the wall,” Arthur says.

  “Byrand—put another team on the farms.”

  He points to five men.

  “Move the water.”

  For a moment, no one moves.

  Then a nod. Another. Slowly, the crowd disperses—still murmuring, but steadier now.

  Mary lingers.

  “Good speech,” she says, then walks away.

  Arthur takes two steps toward Byrand, pushes the loudspeaker into his hands.

  "Do your damn job!"

  ---

  That night, Arthur sits alone in his autohome, lights dim.

  He closes his eyes.

  The Void rises around him.

  Water ripples at his feet. Sarah plays Vocalise by Rachmaninoff. The notes drift through the white air like breath underwater—rising, breaking, fading.

  Arthur waits until she finishes.

  “That was beautiful.”

  He steps closer.

  “Can you bring up a warm memory?”

  The Void softens—becoming an old cabin. Furs by the fire. Snow pressed against the windows.

  The fire cracks—too loud. Too sharp. Like distant rifles.

  Sarah smiles gently.

  “Is this better?”

  Arthur sits beside her, the fire painting their faces in gold.

  "Yes, thank you. I just want to sit with you for a while." He catches her gaze. "I feel like we haven't had time since we got here."

  They talk for hours, voices low against the hiss of flame.

  ---

  The wood snaps again—harder.

  Thunder rolls. The fire flares, heat warping the air.

  The cabin trembles. Glass rattles.

  A gunshot cracks.

  Children cry somewhere unseen.

  The window explodes—glass falling like stars.

  “Arthur! Wake up!”

  ---

  He gasps awake.

  Darkness. Sweat slick on his skin. His pulse hammers.

  “What’s happening?” he whispers.

  “You were dreaming,” Sarah says, her voice trembling through the Void.

  “I’m sorry,” he breathes.

  The Void returns. Water shivers beneath his boots.

  Sarah steps into him, arms wrapped tight around his chest.

  “I’m here,” she whispers.

  “I love you. Never forget that.”

  She kisses him deeply, holding him until the shaking fades.

  “Go back to sleep.”

  ---

  A few weeks later.

  Arthur and Mary sit at a table eating lunch.

  Mary leans forward, voice low.

  “How are things?”

  Arthur leans back.

  “Better than I expected. Faster, too.”

  He lowers his voice.

  “Byrand’s still the problem. Not sure how he ever got leadership.”

  He looks out beyond the tent walls.

  “But we’re holding together.”

  A beat.

  “For now.”

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