Chapter 43 — The Ship That Never Looks Back

Silent Meal

Kieu Trong Nghiem poured tea for his son according to the ritual he kept every night, a habit he inherited from his father, who was also a Dome official who was strict with every smallest gesture. Their apartment, although not as spacious and luxurious as people often imagine about the Dome Floor, still had a quietness that was different from the noisy atmosphere of the Root Floor - no roaring machines, no hurried footsteps of hundreds of people lining up, only soft light from the windows simulating the artificial sunset sky and the sound of tea being poured into porcelain cups.

"I've been coming home later than usual." Kieu Trong Nghiem said, not looking directly at Bach Van, just focusing on pouring tea as if that was the most important thing in this moment. "Teacher Ngo Dac Vuong mentioned to me that you missed two evening simulation training sessions last week."

"I'm focusing on maritime history research, dad." Bach Van replied, trying to keep his voice calm like every other meal. "The graduation thesis requires more documents than you think."

"Study of maritime history." Kieu Trong Nghiem repeated, his voice gentle but with a tone Bach Van couldn't quite identify — maybe it was the usual curiosity of a father, or maybe it was something else, much more cautious. "What specific topic did you choose?"

"I'm reviewing Origin's original navigation decisions, comparing them with what was recorded in the Hai Duong Sutra." Bach Van replied, choosing each word carefully, trying to keep the answer vague enough to not be untrue but also not reveal too much.

Kieu Trong Nghiem put down the teapot and finally looked up at his son, his eyes sharper than at any time during the meal. "Early navigational decisions are a sensitive subject, my son. I'm not saying you shouldn't study it — history belongs to all of us, that's what I teach my students every year. But there are ways of approaching a sensitive subject, and there are other ways that are much more dangerous than they appear."

Bach Van felt his whole body tense up, even though he tried to keep his face calm. "I don't understand what you mean."

"I understand." Kieu Trong Nghiem said, his voice was still calm but had a new weight. "I am the Chief of Instruction, Bach Van. I know every curriculum taught on this ship, every document circulated publicly, and every boundary that cannot be crossed. I also know, even though I don't want to believe it, that recently there have been navigator students who have begun to ask questions beyond those boundaries."

A heavy silence covered the dining table, with only the sound of boiling water clicking from the cooling teapot. Bach Van looked at his father, trying to read how much he knew, whether he was warning or probing, or both at the same time.

"Did you hear anything specific?" Bach Van asked, trying to keep his voice normal even though his heart was beating fast.

Kieu Trong Nghiem was silent for a long time, looking down at her cup of tea as if considering what to say. "I heard that you spent many hours in the student library, looking up old personnel files that have nothing to do with your official education. I heard that you were close to a girl from the Root Floor who was involved in a minor security incident a few months ago. I have no concrete evidence of what you're doing, Bach Van, but I've lived long enough in this system to recognize the signs, and the signs I see in you make me more worried." anything over the years.""

Bach Van put down the tea cup, his hand was not completely steady. "Dad are you watching me?"

"I'm not following you." Kieu Trong Nghiem replied, a bit of hurt flashed through his voice. "But I am your father, and the Dome is a much smaller place than you think. Every rumor, every eye of attention, eventually finds its way to the ears of those who need to know, even if they are not actively looking for it."

Bach Van looked at his father, with a strong urge to ask directly — what did he know about Lam Chu, about the Night of Roots, about the real reason why it was so dangerous for me to ask these questions — but he held back, remembering his promise to Khe Lam that he would not put anyone in unnecessary danger, including his father, especially when he was not sure whose side his father was on.

"I didn't do anything wrong, father." He said, an evasive answer but not a complete lie.

"Maybe so." Kieu Trong Nghiem said, his voice softened a bit, but his eyes still did not leave his son. "But son, there are the right things to do that can still have the wrong consequences, depending on when you choose to do them. I learned that the harder way than you can imagine."

That sentence made Bach Van pause, a new feeling crept into his heart - for the first time, he heard in his father's voice something almost regretful, a small crack in the calm, authoritative shell he always displayed in front of his son.

"What have you learned, Father?" Bach Van asked, carefully, as if he was stepping on a layer of ice that he was not sure was thick enough to withstand the weight of his question.

Kieu Trong Nghiem looked at her son for a long time, then stood up, walked to the simulated window, looking out at the fake sunset that never really set. "There are orders I have to follow in my work, Bach Van, and the reasons are not fully explained to me. I was taught, from when I was younger than you are now, that there are certain topics that should not be included in the curriculum, not because they are wrong, but because they are dangerous in a way I am not allowed to fully understand. I accepted that, because I believed — still believe, if sometimes with a quiet suspicion — that those above me have good reasons. worth more than what they share with us."

"So you don't know the whole truth." Bach Van said, almost as a statement rather than a question.

"No." Kieu Trong Nghiem replied, turning back to look at his son, a rare sincerity in his eyes. "I just know I have to keep order, I have to teach exactly what is approved, I have to be alert for signs of irregularity. I don't know what's behind those orders, and to be honest, son, there are nights when I wonder if it's that ignorance that makes me a better tool for what I don't understand, instead of a better father for my own children."

Bach Van sat silently, stunned by that sudden admission — his father, who had always been present as a solid pillar of order and trust, now revealed a void right in the middle of his own loyalties, a void he had carried for many years without ever saying it out loud to anyone, not even his son.

"So if you tell me, you're learning about something much bigger than a small security incident." Bach Van said, his voice shaking slightly. "What will father do?"

Kieu Trong Nghiem looked at his son for a long time, an internal struggle was evident on his face that Bach Van had never seen before. "I don't know, Bach Van." He spoke finally, his voice hoarse. "I want to tell you that I will protect you at all costs, because you are all I have left after your mother died. But I also know, if what you are looking for is really as great as I fear, there are things that even a father's love cannot protect you from the consequences."

"Then I advise you to stop." Bach Van said, his voice heavy.

"I advise you to be more careful than you have ever been careful in your life." Kieu Trong Nghiem replied, not directly answering the question. "And I urge you to remember that, no matter what you find, no matter how it changes the way you see the world, you are still my son, and that will never change, no matter what path you choose from here."

The meal ended in a silence that was different from usual — not the comfortable silence of habit, but a heavy silence, filled with things both father and son knew but no one had the courage to say them all out loud. When Bach Van left the dining table and went to his own room, he heard his father still sitting there alone, motionless, looking out at the fake sunset that never went down, as if searching in that artificial light for an answer to the very questions he never dared to ask out loud.

In her private room, Bach Van sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at the blank wall in front of her, trying to rearrange what she had just heard into a meaningful shape. His father didn't deny it, didn't reassure him that all his worries were unfounded — he just admitted, in his own reticence, that something real existed behind the boundaries he taught his students to respect. That, to Bach Van, is much scarier than a straightforward ban. A restraining order would at least let him know what he was facing. His father's deliberate ambiguity, on the contrary, only confirmed that the secret was so great that even those closest to the power were only allowed to see its shadow, never its true form.

He thought about his father's last words — you are still my son, that will never change — and wondered if it was a promise, or a farewell spoken in advance, in case the road ahead forced them to take opposite sides.