The meeting was called in the dead of night.
The three aggressors had been restrained and taken to the infirmary under armed watch. Ramires, unconscious, remained sedated, victim of the violence he himself had sown. The other two, though awake, chose silence — preferring mutism over shame.
Joshua had been carried on an improvised stretcher. The swelling on his face wasn't too severe, but internal damage revealed by the scans showed that some bones had not held up. The medic treating him sighed at each new contusion revealed under the cold ceiling lights, as if every mark confirmed a brutality she had never expected to find among comrades.
Marin remained in the secured wing until reinforcements arrived. Then she walked straight to the tactical center, where the Captain had been roused in haste. The names of those involved were already circulating through the corridors, gaining weight among the officers.
Sullever, eyes red from exhaustion, read the report written by his protégé only minutes earlier. He was a good commander — pragmatic, direct, and above all, fair. Still, the situation weighed on him. Deep down he knew that when the security cameras had failed after the power redirection, it had been him who vetoed the emergency maintenance. A routine decision in times of scarcity, but now one that revealed its cost.
Around the table, two lieutenants, three sergeants, and a medical captain followed in silence as the events were reconstructed. The medic narrated with precision the fractures sustained, detailing the injuries inflicted by Marin in response to the violence she had witnessed. No evidence contradicted her version. The knife used by Ramires had been recovered with matching prints. The damaged communicator found on the floor had recorded part of the cover-up attempt.
Marin had spoken only what was essential. Her shoulders remained rigid as they had in the cargo hold. Thanks to the medic's account, it was as if she could see what she hadn't seen — the sounds of blows, muffled grunts, flesh striking metal.
TUM, TUM, TUM...
So close. Almost too late.
"It's all here," said one of the officers, sliding the papers across the metal table. "Partial confession, physical evidence, the record of the emergency call. She saved the boy and prevented a greater tragedy."
"Saved him and nearly snapped the necks of three soldiers," countered the eldest among them. "Still, given the circumstances, there was no excess. The threat was real."
The medic confirmed with a restrained nod.
"One of them confessed they intended to throw the body overboard. We were facing attempted murder."
"Attempted, yes," corrected the first. "The corporal will live."
Silence fell like fog over the room.
The Captain lifted his weary gaze toward the Lieutenant.
"Your report will be forwarded to the disciplinary board. The three will remain in custody until their hearing. As for you..." his brow furrowed "...I advise a twenty-four-hour leave. You need rest."
TUM, TUM, TUM...
Marin nodded without argument. It didn't sound like a suggestion.
Leaving the room, she walked down the side corridor leading to the communications bay. There she sat in the farthest corner, away from the operators, staring for long minutes at the trembling reflection on the cabin's visor. Her face still stained.
Her breathing, uneven.
There was no pride.
No solace.
Only rage.
Rage at having almost been too late.Rage for not stopping it sooner.
Hours passed before the medical captain approached. Marin was alone, leaning against a structural column as if searching for support where none was to be found.
"You need a drink..." said the doctor, offering a gentle though weary smile.
The head of the medical unit was much older than Marin, blonde, full of energy, with an almost luminous presence. It seemed everyone around admired her — and she, with her easy smile, seemed to genuinely like everyone.
Marin, however, wondered in silence if this woman was truly happy, if the world had ever wounded her, or if instead the world embraced her where it had repelled others.
She drifted into daydreams, asking herself what it would be like to live like that, to be light — and she never answered the soldier. She only narrowed her eyes at her.
Still, the medic continued:
"My testimony and the medical report are already in the system. The scans show that Grayson tried to fight back. The marks on his wrists and the fractures in his fingers indicate blocking attempts. He must have resisted as much as he could."
The soldier closed her eyes for a moment, as if her body could no longer bear the weight.
"Ramires was the last to be restrained," the officer went on. "He carried a blade hidden in his boot. That aggravates the charge. It can be interpreted as premeditation, as well as a qualified threat against a superior."
Marin finally spoke, her tone low but firm:
"He threatened me with sexual violence before pulling the blade."
The medic did not look surprised. She only nodded slowly.
"You acted correctly, Lieutenant," she said calmly, without coldness. "In times of war, we are always vulnerable to enemies, even as soldiers. That's why we must stand firm, to protect the civilians. That's who we fight for."
Marin fixed her dark eyes on her.
"But this didn't come from an enemy... it came from an ally. How can I trust my men if they act like this?"
The medic drew in a deep breath, as if carefully selecting her words.
"I'm sorry..." she murmured. "Perhaps I misspoke. What I meant is that you can't let this break you. We work with all kinds of people. And for us, women, even after centuries, the world remains brutal. Especially to those who cannot defend themselves. But that's no longer your case, Lieutenant. You proved yesterday just how strong you are."
The soldier exhaled, emptying her lungs as if making space to begin again.
"Thank you," Marin said.
Silence lingered for a few seconds.
"I need to tend to other emergencies. Please, go to your quarters and try to rest. The Captain will likely summon you soon."
The woman left and went on her way.
Marin watched her depart, yet did not move.
She knew the echoes of that night would continue to reverberate within her for a long time.
She had never sought power.Nor dreamed of ranks, glory, or insignias.
When she enlisted, it was not for prestige but because it felt like what she had to do. As if the sea itself had called — and she had simply answered. She wanted the ocean, and the ocean wanted her back. Things had unfolded in a rhythm she had never foreseen.
At times, she felt the silent urge to vanish into the depths, to sink until her body was cradled by the cold stillness of the waters.
She thought that if that happened, it would feel warm. Welcoming.
But why? Why did she think so? She did not know.
It was only a premonition — formless, illogical. Yet as gentle as returning home.
To sink did not mean to give up.It was not a dance with death.
Marin wanted to live.
And that was exactly why she fought... Precisely why.
To be continued...