Five days.
Five full rotation cycles above Dakun.
Inside the ship, time felt heavy. Not like the desert — not measured in burning suns and dying nights — but in quiet hums, soft lights, and the endless ticking of air recyclers.
Niri adapted faster than Lu'Ka expected.
But not without struggle.
The first day, she barely moved from the medbay.
Only sat by the corner, one leg stretched awkwardly, eyes pinned to the door like she expected it to vanish.
She refused help.
She refused to show weakness.
Even drinking water was done under the hard gaze of suspicion — as if every kindness was a trick waiting to snap shut.
By the second day, she limped through the hallways, trailing her fingers along the walls.
Not for balance — but for mapping.
Marking every corner, every door, every exit.
By the third, she was moving faster.
Still stiff, still favoring her injured leg, but with a silent stubbornness Lu'Ka recognized too well.
A creature who understood one thing:
Keep moving, or die.
---
She dismantled the food printer on the fourth day.
Lu'Ka found her crouched on the floor, half-buried in a tangle of wiring and polymer panels.
When he entered, she didn't startle.
She simply looked up, expression unreadable, one broken circuit strip dangling from her fingers.
A warning.
A challenge.
A simple, silent truth:
This ship is not mine yet. And neither are you.
Lu'Ka only crouched beside her and helped reassemble the unit without a word.
Niri watched him carefully, lips pressed tight, before allowing him close enough to finish.
Small victories.
Hard-earned.
The Kaleid-One became a maze for her.
Niri stalked the ship with restless energy — never staying in one place too long.
She inspected the arboretum pod (and killed two of the last surviving nutrient vines by accident).
She nearly electrocuted herself exploring the emergency bulkhead seals.
She jammed two maintenance hatches open with salvaged med tools.
Lu'Ka didn't interfere.
Let her learn.
Let her own her understanding.
Even when she broke things — even when frustration twisted her face into a mask of rage — he stayed back.
It mattered more that she chose to stay moving.
Chose to stay learning.
Freedom mattered more than order.
---
She didn't speak often.
Not yet.
Words were heavy burdens for someone who had survived in silence.
But Lu'Ka learned to read her hands.
The small signs.
The tightening of her fingers when confused.
The slow, careful tilt of her head when suspicious.
The way her body leaned minutely forward when curious, or slightly back when uncertain.
Survival, made flesh.
And somewhere between broken words and empty glances — trust was starting to grow.
Not full.
Not easy.
But growing.
Outside the ship's viewports, Dakun turned in silence.
Niri visited the window at least once every cycle, staring down at the dunes.
Sometimes for minutes.
Sometimes for hours.
She never said why.
Lu'Ka didn't ask.
But he watched her standing there — the glow of the twin suns limning her scars and bruises — and he understood.
It wasn't nostalgia.
It wasn't longing.
It was vigilance.
Even here, orbiting high above it, she did not trust the desert to leave her alone.
Once you learned to fear a world, you never truly stopped fearing it.
---
At night — or what the ship's chronometers called "night" — Niri curled herself into corners like a creature preparing for storms that would never come.
She refused the crew quarters Lu'Ka offered.
Slept instead in the commons, near vents where she could hear the thrum of machinery and feel vibrations.
No locks.
No closed doors.
She needed escape routes.
Even in dreams.
On the fifth day, Lu'Ka knew the time had come.
They could not orbit Dakun much longer.
The ship's path was already destabilizing, the thin edges of the atmosphere beginning to tug.
If they stayed, they risked discovery by the wrong kind of salvage fleets.
If they jumped, it had to be now.
But he would not drag her away without her choosing it.
He had promised himself that.
No matter what it cost him.
---
In the commons room, Lu'Ka sat opposite her.
He brought no datapads. No tools. No weapons.
Just himself.
And her.
Niri was perched on the floor again, picking apart a cracked utility scanner she had scavenged from storage.
Her fingers worked precisely, despite the tremor in her still-healing wrist.
She didn't look up when he approached.
But she knew he was there.
Knew, and allowed it.
---
Lu'Ka pointed to the viewport.
Then to the curve of the planet below.
He mimed a circle — their orbit.
Then a straight line — away.
He pointed at himself.
Then at her.
Choice.
Go or stay.
Her choice.
---
Niri froze.
For the first time in days, her hands stopped moving.
She lifted her head, blue eyes locking on his.
No fear..
No anger.
Only calculation.
The same ruthless survival calculation that had kept her alive against a world designed to kill her.
---
Slowly, she rose.
Not smoothly.
Not gracefully.
But she stood.
Her orb drifted up beside her, flickering faintly in the ship's filtered light.
She crossed the few steps toward him — limping slightly, but proud.
Facing him squarely.
No words.
None needed.
She tapped her chest.
Then pointed to him.
Then drew her hand through the air — a line forward.
Go.
Together.
---
Lu'Ka didn't smile.
Smiles would cheapen the moment.
He only inclined his head — slow, deliberate.
Acknowledgment.
Respect.
Agreement.
The Kaleid-One hummed quietly around them as Lu'Ka guided the ship toward departure vectors.
Niri stood behind him at the command deck, her hands gripping the edge of the co-pilot's chair.
Wide-eyed.
Silent.
Watching.
When the final jump preparations initiated, the ship's internal lighting shifted — deep blue hues washing over the walls like the slow pulse of a living heart.
The engines vibrated underfoot — low and deep.
Ready.
Waiting.
---
Lu'Ka tapped the console lightly.
A final confirmation.
A final choice.
He glanced back at her — offering, not demanding.
Niri hesitated only a second.
Then nodded once.
Sharp. Certain.
Go.
---
The jump field ignited.
Space warped at the edges of vision — not tearing, not screaming, but folding gently inward.
Niri gasped — the sound small, involuntary — as the stars blurred and twisted, and Dakun vanished behind a veil of color and light.
She gripped the chair harder, her knuckles whitening.
But she didn't cry out.
Didn't flinch away.
She stared into the distortion with wide, burning eyes — refusing to look back.
Refusing to look down.
Only forward.
---
The Kaleid-One slipped cleanly into drift space.
Behind them, Dakun shrank into memory.
Ahead — stars unknown. Worlds unseen.
And for the first time, truly,
Niri was no longer alone beneath the desert sky..