Arthur felt he’d lived ten lives, all without sleep. Breaking free from the veil hours ago had drained him, and what strength remained was bleeding away as he lived out his supposed dream. He was quickly finding out that piloting a meck—at least this meck—was nothing like he expected.

  The HUD stretched across every surface of the cockpit, projecting the hangar in a seamless panorama, as if the walls were made of glass. Occam’s limbs extended from the corners of his sight, and made Arthur feel like he was strapped to the outside of its chest—if only that were the strangest part. He resisted the urge to look upward where Occam’s head loomed.

  Trepidation or tiredness, the sticks slipped from under his sweaty grip, and Occam lurched forward. The floor rushed up to meet him—then at the last second its leg shot out, halting the fall.

  “You’re distracted,” Hitori said, materializing as a miniature version of himself above the dashboard. “You think it’s amusing to be this bad?”

  A curse came to mind—something Cenn had once said—but he swallowed it, not wanting to be ungrateful especially following her outburst earlier…

  The memory was still fresh, flitting just beyond his focus: Arthur, exiting the meck after taking all of three steps—and Cenn, concern washed away by excitement to see him and stare at Occam for the first time.

  Her warmth disappeared as she tried climbing into the cockpit.

  “What do you mean he has to be the pilot?” Cenn had said.

  She probably didn’t mean to say it the way she did. Most likely she’d meant to say something like why can’t there be another pilot? Though he doubted her disappointment would’ve been sated no matter what Hitori’s reply was.

  “Occam was made for one person.”

  Similarly, Arthur reassured himself that the rest of the crew didn’t mean to look at him in such a strange and uniform way, not all at once.

  Without much more explanation than that, Arthur had begun his training. Meanwhile, Hitori had given the crew various tasks to prepare for launch—instructions everyone seemed hesitant to follow yet some power of the old Daiko persisted in his ghost, and they relented.

  Arthur swayed in the seat, stomach unsettled as Occam moved with him, shaking the HUD display like Arthur had a contact lens fall out of focus. He reached for his canteen, hesitated, remembering this was the last he’d be allowed till launch, and took a small sip.

  The restraints hugged him. He could feel it now—the way they gently adjusted with his movements. Just his breath caused them to expand and contract like they were extensions of his own lungs.

  He’d been so impressed with the rest of Occam’s cockpit that he hadn’t noticed how secure he really was. So far, the restraints had kept him from feeling any whiplash at all, save for when Hitori had to step in. Apparently there wasn’t much Hitori could do in terms of remote piloting, though that still didn’t make sense.

  While Occam’s unsettling face loomed above, he could feel something on the other side of the sticks, and couldn’t help thinking it was Hitori—a puppeteer—and Arthur was his marionette.

  A complex array of strings came to mind—like webbing—and an odd crack appeared on the HUD. It grew, like something was pressing inward, only it wasn’t a crack in the display. A spider crawled across the display as large as Arthur’s head.

  Arthur jerked, shoving the sticks. Occam collapsed to the hangar floor in another graceless heap.

  He hadn’t the mind to be grateful for the restraints then. His head shot around in all directions, searching for what could only be a space-spider.

  “You see the importance of focus now?” Hitori reformed on the dash after the thing had disappeared, flowing together like sand in an hourglass.

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  “There was a—”

  “A spider, yes. The object of your distraction. Reckless engagement of the DVE invites manifestations. At best, you waste time. At worst, you swat at shadows and tear a hole through the Razorback with your crew still inside.”

  The dozens of holos winked out and the cockpit’s transparency began to fade. As the hangar disappeared from view, the cockpit became more solid. Arthur had seen it before they left Dearth, when it resembled something more familiar to the cockpits Daiko designed for the circuits. Now, despite his clear advancements, it looked simple—too plain to be the cutting edge Hitori promised it was.

  The vambraces and greaves peeled open, releasing him, and Arthur sagged in the seat.

  “Dynamic Verge Environment,” Hitori restated, “the technology linking mind, body, and heart into one cohesive form. This is part of Daiko’s legacy, as much as Occam itself. Without it, the system he designed wouldn’t work, nor could you operate it. You aren’t applying yourself.”

  Arthur forced a laugh, “so get someone else.”

  The words felt like they belonged to someone braver, and he immediately regretted it. This is what he’d fought for.

  “Impossible. Daiko designed Occam so that only one could pilot it. Since you passed the trial, you have become that person.”

  Arthur pictured Cenn sitting on a crate, watching Arthur train and seeing him fail drill after drill. She was better suited for this. Mina, maybe too. Anyone but him. This is what I wanted.

  It was strange how quickly discomfort could trigger these implicit and defeatist responses in him.

  “And what if I can’t do this?” He managed to say, “will you let someone else try?”

  “If you fail to get off the asteroid, it won’t matter who the pilot is. You’ll all die.”

  Among the man characteristics Daiko had given Hitori, his delivery of real world stakes was pungent.

  “How can you be an AI—” Arthur tried to cover for himself, and winced as Hitori grew in size to deliver the lesson Arthur knew was coming.

  “Daiko Hitori abhorred the use of modern Artificial Intelligence, as I’ve said, and has chosen to refer to the mechanism of myself and Occam as Ultimente.” Hitori reduced his size once again—there really wasn’t much room for the both of them to begin with—and his face grew more stern. “Is it not enough motivation for you to be responsible for the survival of everyone onboard?”

  The weight of responsibility he’d been carrying all day suddenly doubled. From waking on an asteroid to reliving nightmares, and now this—chosen not because he was the best, but because he’d stepped up first.

  Roman flashed in his mind. What would his trial have looked like? Or any of the others—the thought of their darkest moments left Arthur cold.

  Hitori hummed, a little out of tune than a human would.

  “Focus. Apply yourself. Control your emotions, and you’ll succeed.”

  Arthur hesitated. This wasn’t the first time Hitori had said something familiar—a version of what Daiko had once spoken, but also different.

  “Do you understand?” Hitori asked.

  Arthur considered. Here he was, being trained by the Dragon—or as near to it as was possible—and he hesitated? Sheepishly, he said, “Emotions are kinda what we humans do. We’re not machines…”

  Like you, is what he almost said. He wondered if Hitori would’ve taken offense.

  “There’s a difference between having emotions, and letting them rule you. You must always be aware of your connection to Occam. The DVE is more than a visual aid, but there is much more to be wary of should you not learn, and quickly.”

  “You keep saying that—you and Occam—like the meck is alive and making decisions on its own.”

  “Yes.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense. So ultimente refers to you and the meck? What about the DVE? How can I see these things?” Arthur felt he was going cross eyed trying to explain himself.

  “Survive and you’ll have more answers. For now, we don’t have time.”

  Arthur wanted to argue, wanted to demand Hitori explain himself more, it felt like he was holding something back—but the HUD came back online, flooding the cockpit with transparency.

  “Let’s start from the top,” Hitori said.

  “Again? Can I take a quick break?” Arthur asked weakly.

  “Break?” Hitori’s voice cut sharp. “What did you think this conversation was? Break, bah,” Hitori scoffed in much the same way Daiko had, “Are you ready to save yourself, your crew, and go to war? Tell me honestly that you are, and you can have your break.”

  Arthur signed, knowing the truth: he was far from ready. The countdown flashing in the corner of the HUD read 8 hours, 32 minutes. Time was slipping.

  Arthur leaned into the sticks and set his jaw. “What’s next?”

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