Who needs sleep at the end of the world?
Mina closed the journal—that last line echoing louder than the rest—and tossed it atop the pile at her feet. Exhaustion was just another signal in her body, easy enough to mute alongside the other emotions she kept sealed away. Not since her time at university had she poured herself into such dense reading. Back then, at least the notes had been digitally organized, written in-line, and always legible.
She pulled another journal from the stack—its pages creased and folded like origami—and tucked herself into a small nook beside the Razor. Val lay sprawled on what had probably been her father’s work cot.
Who needs sleep at the end of the world?
Being marooned in space hadn’t dulled her father’s work ethic, nor, she assumed, his habit of laboring until he collapsed, sometimes before reaching his bed. She had lost count of the nights she found him that way, slumped over something half-finished.
When other kids were sneaking out, she was sneaking into the shop to see what he was building. With two brilliant scientists for parents, her curiosity had been meticulously fostered, and now never satisfied. She tried remembering how old she’d been when a set of colorful tools had been left for her to discover while he slept. Her favorite had been the red hammer…
Her thoughts drifted, and she had to flip back several pages before landing on a line she remembered:
With less, there is more. Occam’s Razor, Occam’s Favor.
Fitting line for a master’s final contribution, and she had to admit, the meck was impressive. At first glance, Occam seemed an unadorned, almost austere weapon, like a well-made knife. That was what the layman saw—not Mina.
The genius—or madness—was in the proportions and angles. It looked too delicate for war, when mecks were usually built to withstand direct gunfire for minutes at a time. To Mina, her father’s theories weren’t simply written in blueprints, but etched across the hull itself.
And who could ignore the head?
What had made him break from tradition—from common sense—and install something like that? You didn’t put a face on a war meck. Or any meck for that matter. It made them too familiar, too humanizing to serve as the Empire’s great enforcer for centuries. Amongst everything else happening, it should have been the least of her concerns—but it needled her anyway.
She returned to her reading only to hear—and feel—Occam crash again. By now the crew was beyond worrying about safety. For all her father’s work on the meck and the Razor, he’d even reinforced the floor beneath them. It was like he knew they’d need something sturdy to train on in these last two days.
Still, she glanced at the meck crawling to its hands and knees. Hard to believe he’d planned for Arthur though. Any credibility her father earned by rigging the cryo pods, recalibrating life support, and modifying the Razor for space travel was buried beneath the absurdity of his trial.
An exclusive pilot clause? How could her father leave something so monumental up to chance? There were better choices. Cenn, though dangerously thoughtless, at least had experience. Even Mina caught herself wondering if she’d had been the better option. If this truly was something advanced beyond modern technology, then which novice was better: one could rightly build her own meck, or the boy who needed a crutch to get around…
She chastised herself for thinking of Arthur that way. It was just that these contradictions—the brilliant foresight, and reckless restrictions—drove her into the journals, digging into his every spare thought, desperate to make sense of it.
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Occam stood, and Arthur went back to training—ferrying empty crates across the hangar, only to return them once the row was cleared.
Meanwhile, Cenn stalked the hangar, pausing whenever Arthur stumbled. She didn’t care that Mina noticed her glaring; she likely wanted everyone to see her angry, it’s how the woman worked.
Eventually, Cenn drifted back to help Roman run their spark-pike’s along the rail system that would guide the Razor from one end of the hangar to the other, and through the bay doors. They treated it like routine maintenance, and not at all like leaping into the void.
Mina had already finished reviewing the launch codes her father left behind, and Snake was double-checking her work. The AI—which she hesitated to even deign calling it ultimente—referred to her checking the codes as simply a precaution. A precaution? Like I’m going to trust a man who put head on a meck to get something like launch codes right.
Even Val was at least attempting to pull her weight, cataloging and stowing equipment. Though Mina had to check her work too, and it was the bravista, Suraj, who did the heavy lifting.
Where was he anyway?
The man was quietly delighted when they uncovered a collection of clothes and personal effects, among the mess was indeed his black suit and glassware, which he donned almost immediately, as though they might make him capable of traveling back in time and completing his mission. He hadn’t said as much, but for all his stoicism, it was written all over him.
Sliding from the table, she began packing the journals she thought substantial. Then, after a pause, the ones only mildly thought-provoking—it was still a large number, and she wondered how long it would take to get through them.
Occam shifted behind her and Mina spared a moment to inspect its movement. The machine faced her, seeming frozen while its yellow eyes glowed faintly beneath the kabuto helm. She was reminded of the helm that laid neatly in the storage locker Joyce had set up for them, along with their uniforms, kendo sticks, and…
Emotion surged—anger, confusion, grief rising like waves—only to crash against her walls. She straightened, commanded them back once again.
If I could just see in the cockpit. 10 minutes, and I’d know what I need to know.
“We’re ready,” Cenn said, kicking Val’s cot until the woman rose like a zombie.
“So am I,” Val mumbled, one eye still shut.
“Sure. And Snake?”
Val lifted her feet from the ground, fervent, as though a serpent was moments away from striking at her ankles. Mina rolled her eyes, and carried her crate of memories toward the Razor.
“He’s finishing the code—probably done now. Is the rail ready?”
“You mean in one piece?” Cenn tossed her spark-pike into the tool bin with a clatter—Mina stifled a reprimand, as it made a mess of the neatly packed rows she’d made. “It’s not that different from the Primera pits. It’ll shoot us into space. After that, it’s on him.”
Mina couldn’t tell if she meant Arthur or the AI, maybe both. Of the members of the crew, Cenn seemed the most dispirited by the commands given to her. No surprise there. Any attempt to curb the woman’s agency was met with backlash, but she had no choice—none of them did.
“Where’s Roman?” Val asked.
“Coms room,” Cenn said, “The old man told us power needed to be diverted. He just pops up whenever I take a minute to rest. Has he done that to you too—” Cenn swayed, catching herself.
“You okay?” Mina asked, knowing all too well the feeling of dehydration and diminishing atmosphere.
“No,” she replied after a moment, picking up a crate and just tossing it into storage, “are you?”
Mina didn’t answer.
The cistern was already aboard, along with every tube of space-goo left on the ship. It was meager, hardly enough for the journey to Quay according to the AI. That her father had survived on the goo had been unsuprising—the man always did have simple tastes. She figured he’d grown something in the years he’d been alive, but by the time they awoke, only the vines persisted—yet another thing she didn’t have the time to investigate further.
Despite the stakes, and the mounting threat before them, a yawn stretched across her face.
“Me too,” Val said, repeating the gesture beside her. “Get any sleep?”
Mina smiled, mirthlessly.
“Sleep? Who needs sleep here—at the end of the world?”
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