Chapter 44 — The Ship That Never Looks Back

Two Words That Shouldn't Be Spoken

The Office of the Education Department is located on the top floor of the Dome Floor administrative area, with large glass windows overlooking the entire academy area below, where Kieu Trong Nghiem has worked for twenty-two years, from a young teacher to the current position of Head of the Department. That morning, he was urgently summoned to the office of a high-ranking member of the Star Council, the person in charge of supervising all activities of the Education Department - a meeting that was not on the regular schedule, announced only fifteen minutes in advance.

"Sit down, Trong Nghiem." The Commissioner said, not offering tea as is common courtesy between officials of the same rank near each other, a lack of protocol that made Kieu Trong Nghiem immediately understand that this was not an intimate meeting.

"Commissioner, is there anything I need to take care of?" He asked, trying to keep his voice calm even though a bad feeling arose in his heart.

"Your son." The Commissioner spoke frankly, without beating around the bush. "Kieu Bach Van. I received reports that he spent an unusually large amount of time looking up old personnel files unrelated to the official navigator training program, and had a close relationship with a Root Layer engineer who was discovered near the forbidden storage area not long ago."

Kieu Trong Nghiem felt her stomach tighten, but tried to maintain the calm expression of someone who has been accustomed to controlling her emotions in front of superiors for twenty years. "I talked to my son about this, Commissioner. He confirmed that it was just research for his graduation thesis."

"I hope that's true." The Commissioner said, his voice never softening. "But I need you to understand the seriousness of this situation, Trong Nghiem, because perhaps you have not been fully briefed in your role." He stopped, looked straight into Kieu Trong Nghiem's eyes, and considered each word before continuing. "There is an unwritten rule that has existed within the Council at high levels for a long time, passed down through many generations of leaders, and I believe you were also vaguely told when you first took office: never let anyone, whether a student or an official, get close to the words Lam Chu."

Kieu Trong Nghiem sat motionless, those two words rang in his head like a bell from far away, something he had heard briefly exactly once, many years ago, from his predecessor, accompanied by a brief, unexplained warning: "If you hear these two words anywhere, extinguish it immediately, without asking why." He never knew what it meant, only knew it was on the list of things that absolutely must not be leaked.

"I... I've heard that phrase before, Commissioner." He said, his voice quiet. "But its meaning was never explained."

"You don't need to know what it means." The Commissioner replied, almost immediately, as if the question had been anticipated and there was a prepared answer to quell it. "You just need to know that, if your son is, in any way, getting close to that phrase in his research, it is no longer an academic matter. It is a security matter of the highest level that this ship can face. I tell you this not as a threat, Trong Nghiem, but because you are one of the people I trust most in this apparatus, and I need you to understand so I can stop your son myself before things happen." went too far, instead of letting it become an issue we were forced to handle it officially.""

That last sentence, although wrapped in concern, carried a naked threat that Kieu Trong Nghiem could not misunderstand. He nodded, his throat dry. "I understand, Commissioner. I will talk to my son."

"Good." The Commissioner said, standing up, signaling the meeting was over. "For your own son's sake, Trong Nghiem, I hope this is the last time his name appears in any reports I receive."

Kieu Trong Nghiem left the office, walked through the long hallway leading to his office without really seeing anything in front of him, his mind reeling with the two words that had just been said publicly for the first time in his twenty-two year career — Lam Chu. He didn't know what it was. But he knew, with a new cold certainty, that it was big enough for a High Commissioner to summon him personally, dangerous enough to directly threaten his son's safety, and well-guarded enough that even a Chief of Instruction like him had never been allowed to know what it really meant.

That night, when Bach Van returned, Kieu Trong Nghiem was already waiting in the living room, not at the dining table as usual, a small difference but enough for Bach Van to immediately realize that something serious had happened.

"Dad, what's wrong?" He asked, sitting down across from his father.

"I was summoned today." Kieu Trong Nghiem said, his voice still trembling slightly even though he tried to hide it. "For you."

Bach Van was silent, waiting, a familiar cold feeling spreading throughout his body.

"They mentioned a phrase." Kieu Trong Nghiem said, looking straight into his son's eyes, trying to read his reaction before continuing. "Lam Chu. Do you know what that phrase means, Bach Van?"

Bach Van felt his whole body freeze, a moment of silence lasted too long to be hidden, and in that very moment, Kieu Trong Nghiem saw on his son's face the answer he had just asked, clearer than any words could express.

"Oh my God." Kieu Trong Nghiem whispered, raising his hand to cover his face for a moment, a desperate gesture Bach Van had never seen from his father. "You have truly found it. You have found something that even I, after twenty-two years of service, have never been allowed to know."

"Father." Bach Van said, his voice choked. "I'm sorry for dragging you into this, Dad."

"Don't apologize to me." Kieu Trong Nghiem said, lowering his hand, his eyes now carrying a complex mixture of fear, pride, and a pain he couldn't fully express. "Tell me, my son—though I may not have the courage to accept everything you're about to say—is it worth risking everything?"

Bach Van looked at his father for a long time, pondering every word, knowing that this moment could decide whether his father would become a silent ally, or a new danger he must learn to avoid right in his own home.

"I can't tell you everything, dad, at least not yet." He said, choosing each word carefully. "But I can tell you this: it wasn't a senseless plot, it wasn't a mindless rebellion by curious children. It's the truth about this ship itself, about why we're here, and I believe that everyone on board, including you, deserves to know it, no matter how painful knowing it may be."

Kieu Trong Nghiem sat silently for a long time, looking at his son with a look Bach Van couldn't completely decipher - not the anger he feared, nor quite the acceptance, but something in between, heavier and more complicated than both.

"I won't report you." He spoke finally, his voice hoarse. "But I can't help you either, Bach Van, not because I don't want to, but because I really don't know how to help, and any wrong move on my part right now could make things worse for both you and me. I can only ask one thing of you — whenever you need a safe place to step back, to think, this door is always open for you, whether I understand or not what you're doing."

"Thank you, father." Bach Van said, his eyes stinging.

Father and son sat there in silence for a long time, no one said anything else, only the artificial sunset light gradually turned dark purple outside the window, marking another day that had passed on the ship that never really had a real sunset, and a new distance, fragile but not entirely separate, had formed between father and son since the very moment the two words Lam Chu were said out loud in that small room.

That night, Bach Van texted Khe Lam as soon as his father had returned to his room, recounting the entire meeting — from the Commissioner's summons to his father's confession that he had never been allowed to know the true meaning behind those two words, only a blind order to suppress them through successive generations of leaders. "What does that mean?" He wrote, his fingers shaking on the device's screen. "That the entire class that runs this ship is just obeying a fear they don't understand, passed from person to person like a disease with no clear origin?"

Khe Lam read the message several times before responding, feeling a new thrill at the scale of what they were dealing with — not just a small group of secret-keepers at the pinnacle of power as she had imagined, but a carefully stratified structure where each class of people knew just enough to fear, not enough to understand, and that very ignorance became the most effective protection tool for the secret, more effective than any lock or Guard could create.