Terran Commonwealth · Epsilon Prime · Garipan — War Planning Department

  Time: November 2510

  Jack Harlan was busy as hell.

  One after another, operational plans piled into the Sixth Research Office like snowflakes. Even the staff officers who had once been mere spectators were now too busy to nitpick each other, and even the intern, Leo, was assigned a mountain of calculation tasks. Everyone was rushing to assemble their own plans that could "pass review." The war was too big; losing Cadian City was tantamount to surrendering the strategic initiative, and no one dared to take this arithmetic lightly.

  "Sir," Leo pushed a model in front of him, "the 'Janus' Mainframe has calculated something strange—based on attrition rates, the Empire's reserves to maintain this level of offensive should have hit bottom two hours ago. But they haven't weakened; instead, they've gotten fiercer."

  Jack rubbed his temples, as if trying to smooth out a persistent ache. "It's like a boxer who keeps jabbing you with his left hand, one jab after another, but he's hiding a heavy right hook behind his back. Where the hell is that right hook coming from?"

  A new frontline dispatch came in: the Sixteenth Armored Division had been thrown onto the line as the general reserve, and the Tartarus Legion's "Wraith" mechs were appearing between the highlands like phantoms.

  Suddenly, Jack said, "Run a worst-case scenario. Assume our intelligence has catastrophic gaps: their right hand is the main fleet. Assume Admiral Snyder can't hold them back. Assume Garipan is surrounded. Run a simulation on the probability of the city falling."

  Leo was stunned for a moment but immediately complied. A few minutes later, a low-probability but non-zero conclusion appeared on the screen: Garipan besieged, total resistance fails.

  Seeing that number, Jack's old wound—the memory of what he called the "fourteenth escape"—pricked him like a thorn in soft flesh. He remained calm on the surface, but his mind began to frantically calculate a final way out for himself—the most direct, life-saving route was to evacuate by ship. The ones with the best qualifications for a ship pickup were those who held top secrets and could activate the "priority evacuation" channel: the Seventh Laboratory.

  Thoughts raced through his mind like a carousel: Nova was General Carrick's daughter, and the lab had people like Dr. Thorne who could persuade the higher-ups. As the lab's nominal second-in-command, I have to go buy my ticket first-come, first-served. Safety first, right?

  The Seventh Laboratory

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  Nova was hunched over her desk, writing, so focused that the world seemed to have nothing to do with her. Jack walked quietly into the workspace, intending to handle things with his most practiced trickery: first, confirm that she would evacuate him along with the "Phantom" project, then make arrangements for the future. He just didn't expect to be thrown off by the tranquility of the scene before him.

  From where he stood, the light traced a few soft lines on Nova's profile as she wrote, her forehead dotted with delicate beads of sweat. In that instant, Jack felt a strange agitation—not simple desire, but more like the tension of being on a knife's edge. He took a breath, moved his gaze away from the plunging neckline of her collar, and put on a professional expression.

  "Nova," he lowered his voice, "we need to talk."

  He projected Leo's model onto the console in front of her. On the screen, the simulated numbers pulsed coldly—a 17% probability of Garipan falling within seventy-two hours. The Seventh Laboratory was a top-secret unit; according to regulations, once the risk exceeded 15%, a Level One evacuation or scorched-earth protocol should be initiated.

  Nova looked up, her eyes holding the rational light he was familiar with. She didn't panic. Instead, she looked at it as if it were just another piece of data—then pulled up her own model from her seat, her fingers sliding across the interface as if playing an instrument.

  "Your model ignores the reinforcement speed of the Sixteenth Armored Division," she said, "and it doesn't factor in the defensive bonus from the deployment of my AMS lattice reinforcement. According to the variables on my end, the risk is at 11%, still within the safety threshold."

  The conversation instantly shifted from a "lover's tragic farewell" to a debate between two scholars: data, calibrations, and hypotheses were refuted and revised one after another. Jack found he couldn't convince her with data—and once the thin veil of his performance was torn away, the fear in his heart was laid bare.

  He slammed a fist on the console, the sound exploding in the lab: "This isn't just numbers, Nova! I've come back from that kind of hell! I know what it looks like when a defensive line collapses!"

  It was the first time he had ever shown such unguarded vulnerability in front of her. Nova watched him quietly, the calmness on her face slowly melting away, replaced by a complex emotion.

  She didn't rush forward to comfort him. She simply returned to her console, quickly pulled up the lab's highest-level protocols, and then nodded.

  "Alright," she said, her voice without hesitation, "I will submit an application to my father to initiate a Level One evacuation protocol on the grounds of 'critical technology facing potential threat'."

  She paused, turning to look at Jack, her tone like both a command and a promise: "According to Article Three of the Technology Secrecy Act, as the Deputy Director of the Seventh Laboratory, you are required to evacuate along with the core equipment of the 'Phantom' Project."

  Jack was stunned—the ticket he wanted had arrived, but not in the way he had manipulated to get it. Instead, he was struck by Nova's calm and decisiveness. She walked toward him, step by step, and said in a low voice:

  "Listen, Harlan. I'll get you out. But you owe me one."

  With that, she stood on her toes and planted a kiss on his forehead. It wasn't gentle, nor was it lingering, but it was filled with possession and resolve. Nova turned and opened the door, walking out without a look back. The door closed behind her, the sound like a contract being sealed.

  Jack stood there, as if he'd been pushed through a wave. He looked at the "Phantom" mech frame in the corner and gave a bitter smile. "Well, buddy," he said. "Looks like this time, we really have to survive."