CH-1 Scene 2, the Whaea Protocol. A rush of air brushed the back of my neck, a cool awakening chill,an impossible draft in the pressurized cabin. Papatuanuku’s instincts didn’t bellow over thecomms. Instead, her Whaea Protocols breathed through the static, her code a subtle brush against my mind.“Move swift as the asteroid, Young Yang,” she whispered, her voice a silken thread of ancientpoise. “See the pull of gravity where there is none. See Tumatauenga’s taiaha. It owns the momentum.To be provoked is to be piloted by another’s hand. You must be as still as Father Mountain.”The heat in my chest didn’t vanish. It narrowed into a needle point of tactical focus.The nebulae had spoken, anchoring my spark. Then the comms line shrieked.Ecocide’s laugh flickered across the speakers, wet and mocking.“What is that stupid gibberish your metal plate tin bucket is muttering?” he roared.“Whaea Mother Protocols?” He spat the words like gargling on laughter. “I splattered her and yourfather across the eons. Whoever heard of Mother Protocols? Boring! Sentimentality is a glitch in thehardware, boy. It’s weak. It’s ancient history.” He leaned into the frequency, his voice dropping intoa dark, distorted thrum. “I’ll send you and your metal plate mother back to the plasma age,to the smelt and the sludge. Now that’s a protocol! Let’s see how your whaea analog galleonhandles being turned back into primordial plasma. She can join Arthurian’s Sword and Tumatauenga’staiaha. They’re all locked in time… my time.” The psychic pressure tripled. The bridgegroaned as if the ship itself were flinching from the threat. Then—”No—son—don’t—” My father’svoice was thin, barely holding together against Ecocide’s roar, but it landed. The anger stalledmid-strike, collapsing inward. My raised hand froze, trembling now—not from rage, but from themassive effort of redirection. The feed stayed dead. The wall stayed blank. “No,” I whispered,the word meant only for them. “I won’t.” Silence followed. Heavy. Unforgiving. Behind me,systems finished rebooting. The echo of his voice stayed with me—fractured, undeniable—long enoughto breathe. It all started just like before. Then the Codex broke through the noise. The Papatuanukutwisted out of the vortex, hull groaning, frame buckling, pitching us into a galactic tumble,spinning, snapping, rolling end over end as if the ship itself had lost agreement with gravity.Deck became wall, wall became ceiling. None of it held long enough to trust. Crew were thrownloose—bodies slamming, grabbing for anything that would hold, hands missing, catching, losing againas the ship kept rolling faster than thought could track. Crashing from ceiling to floor, bouncingoff wall to wall as the world snapped back into weight and resistance. Unexpectedly, a flick flewout of the screen. Then a ping cascaded and smashed onto the floor. Then another ping, and another,until pings and hashtags became ricochets snapping between the morning sun and the one that sets.Both were now visible at once as the vortex twisted them into alignment, overlaying them so tightlyI couldn’t tell which was rising and which was falling as my legs shot above my head.For a fraction of a femtosecond, static once tuned to doubts and anxieties snapped away mid-spin,peeled back as I seized gains. The pull intensified—dragging, rotating, folding me through anglesthat don’t exist. PsyOps the Deceiver cut in with whispers threading through the current,echoing ahead of themselves. “Forget them, look there, stay preoccupied—I’ve got your best interestsaligned with mine. Come join me.” “Quick—apply more aggression drops. Divide and conquer,” the Deceiver pressed,voice stretching, warping, arriving before it’s spoken.
