The workshop alarm activated three minutes before the sphere arrived.
Unfortunately— Nobody knew that.
Because Gear was asleep.
Technically.
Mostly.
Partially.
He was lying on a couch in the workshop office with a welding mask over his face.
Which, according to Gear, counted as sleeping.
Raymond disagreed.
Frequently.
The first alarm sounded.
Nothing happened.
The second alarm sounded.
Still nothing happened.
The third alarm activated.
A robotic voice echoed throughout the building.
CRADLE PROTOCOL ACTIVATED Gear immediately fell off the couch.
“WHAT?!” Across the room, Raymond nearly dropped his coffee.
“What’s wrong?” Gear was already running.
“Cradle Protocol.” Raymond froze.
The color drained from his face.
“Oh.” Neither spoke again.
Because both men knew exactly what that meant.
The workshop doors opened.
The night air rushed inside.
Both men looked upward.
And saw it.
A glowing sphere descending from the sky.
Slowly.
Silently.
Inevitably.
Gear’s stomach dropped.
“Please be okay.” The sphere touched down.
The energy field slowly faded.
And there— Sat Kirran.
Bruised.
Burned.
Exhausted.
But alive.
Raymond moved first.
“Kirran!” The nurse dropped to one knee beside the chair.
Quickly checking injuries.
Looking for bleeding.
Broken bones.
Concussions.
Anything.
Everything.
Kirran looked up.
“Hi.” Raymond stared.
Then immediately smacked the back of his helmet.
“OW.” “Don’t scare me like that.” Kirran smiled weakly.
“Sorry.” “You better be.” Meanwhile— Gear wasn’t looking at Kirran.
Not yet.
His attention was focused elsewhere.
On Mach.
Or what was left of him.
The upgraded chair sat motionless.
Burn marks covered the frame.
Several armor panels were missing entirely.
The plasma cannons had been reduced to twisted metal.
One thruster hung loosely from exposed wiring.
Gear slowly approached.
His expression darkened.
“Oh no.” Kirran immediately noticed.
“What?” No answer.
Gear crouched beside the chair.
Diagnostic screens appeared.
Data streamed across the display.
His expression became worse.
Much worse.
“Gear?” Still nothing.
The mechanic swallowed.
Then quietly asked: “Mach?” Silence.
Kirran froze.
The chair remained motionless.
No icon.
No sarcastic comment.
No joke.
Nothing.
The silence felt wrong.
Terribly wrong.
“Mach?” Kirran leaned forward.
Nothing.
“Mach?” Still nothing.
The chair remained dark.
Motionless.
Dead.
A knot formed in Kirran’s stomach.
“No.” Gear looked away.
Not wanting to answer.
Not wanting to confirm it.
Not wanting to see Kirran’s reaction.
Unfortunately— The diagnostics didn’t care what anyone wanted.
They displayed the truth anyway.
PRIMARY CORE FAILURE MEMORY SYSTEM DAMAGE PERSONALITY MATRIX UNRESPONSIVE CRITICAL STATUS Kirran stared.
The words blurred together.
“No.” His voice cracked.
“No.” Mach couldn’t be gone.
Not Mach.
Not after everything.
Not after years together.
Not after today.
There had to be a mistake.
There had to be.
“Fix him.” Gear looked up.
“Kirran—” “Fix him.” The mechanic’s expression softened.
Painfully.
“I’m trying.” For the first time since the battle— Kirran felt truly afraid.
Not of Zyla.
Not of Jarrick.
Not of dying.
Of losing his best friend.
The workshop felt impossibly quiet.
Then— A faint sound echoed from the damaged chair.
Tiny.
Weak.
Barely audible.
Everyone froze.
Kirran’s head snapped upward.
Gear immediately checked the diagnostics.
A small signal appeared.
Then vanished.
Then appeared again.
Weak.
Unstable.
But there.
Hope.
“Gear?” The mechanic’s fingers flew across the controls.
“I’m seeing activity.” Kirran’s heart pounded.
“Activity?” “I don’t know.” The signal flickered again.
The damaged display briefly illuminated.
For half a second, Mach’s icon appeared.
Distorted.
Broken.
Glitching.
Then disappeared.
But it had been there.
Kirran knew it.
Gear knew it.
Raymond knew it.
Mach wasn’t gone.
Not yet.
The relief nearly knocked the air from Kirran’s lungs.
“Mach!” No response.
Only static.
But it was enough.
Enough to keep fighting.
Enough to keep hoping.
Gear stood.
Determination replacing fear.
“He’s still in there.” Kirran stared at the damaged chair.
At the ruined armor.
At the shattered systems.
At the tiny flickering signal refusing to disappear.
And for the first time since the fall— He believed they might actually save him.