Chapter 62 — The Ship That Never Looks Back

Closed Session

The small Council Hall, where the Star Council met in informal sessions, carries a silence that was different from the solemn atmosphere of the Audience Hall where the public was sometimes allowed to witness from afar. Here, there was no ceremony, no Founding Seal solemnly displayed on a stone pedestal, just a round gray alloy table and twelve chairs, eight of which were occupied when Kieu Trong Nghiem walked in, punctual as always.

Chuong Khac Dinh sat at the head of the table, as he always did, his face carrying a familiar calm expression but Trong Nghiem, after many years of observing this man, noticed a small tension at the corner of his mouth, the only sign that something was truly worrying the Council Elder.

"Let's begin." Chuong Khac Dinh said, there is no need to wait for latecomers. "Reports from the Guard over the past week indicate a significant increase in illegal gatherings on the Ground Floor, especially around the Transfer Hall area, where shift workers congregate. Not just the quantity, but also the nature — the usual complaints about rationing are shifting to more specific questions, about history, about what happened nineteen years ago."

A heavy silence spread across the table. Trong Nghiem felt the eyes of several people pass over him, as if wondering if he knew anything about the origin of that wave of questions, when his son had begun to show unusual signs over the past several months.

"This is exactly what I've been warning about since the beginning of the year." Ton Khac Du spoke up, the middle-aged man in charge of Internal Security, his voice was as sharp as a knife. "We have been too lenient. Directive Twelve has been relaxed too soon, too quickly, and now we are reaping the consequences. I recommend reintroducing the strictest level of control, accompanied by a systematic round of questioning of individuals suspected of being the focal point of this wave of questioning."

"Interrogate whom, Commissioner?" A new voice spoke up, calm yet sharp, from the end of the table. Ung Bao Trung, the person in charge of Residential Life, sat up straight, his eyes looking straight at Ton Khac Du without avoiding it. "We're talking about eleven thousand two hundred Root Layer residents. How many of them are we going to interrogate before we realize that it's the way we're handling the problem that's feeding it?"

"I'm not surprised to hear Commissioner Candidate say that." Ton Khac Du replied, his voice cold. "He always believed that kindness could solve all problems. But we are managing a closed ecosystem with finite resources, not a simple morality tale. If unrest spreads, if someone decides to sabotage the water or gas recycling system in a fit of anger, all of us, including those he is trying to protect, will die. No exceptions, no innocents will be spared."

"And if we continue to tighten the grip so much that the very people who operate the system feel they have nothing left to lose," Ung Bao Trung responded, "we are single-handedly pushing them toward the very action you fear most. Fear does not control violence, Commissioner. It only delays it, then makes it more violent when it finally explodes."

Chuong Khac Dinh raised his hand, a small gesture but enough to silence both of them. "We are not meeting today to debate philosophy, gentlemen. We are meeting to decide on specific actions."

An older woman, with white hair but still sitting as straight as a young navigator, spoke for the first time since the session began. La Dieu Ninh, who held the position of Chief Navigator for decades before Ngo Dac Vuong succeeded her, is now one of the most respected voices on the Council, although she rarely speaks. "I lived through the Night of the Broken Roots, Elder. I remember clearly what we did then, and I remember even more clearly what it left behind—not the stability we wanted, but a wound that had been smoldering for nineteen years, just waiting to flare up again. I wonder if we were to repeat the exact same treatment this time, would we really expect a different result."

"What are you suggesting, Commissioner La?" Chuong Khac Dinh asked, his voice was still calm but Trong Nghiem noticed a new alertness in his eyes.

"I suggest we consider something that has not been seriously considered in the past two hundred and forty-seven years." La Dieu Ninh said, her voice echoed throughout the room even though she was not loud. "Release partial truths, in a controlled manner, along a path we decide for ourselves, rather than waiting for it to be revealed in ways we can't control. Not the whole thing. Not right away. But enough so that residents feel they are being respected as human beings with a right to know about their own journey, rather than being treated as children who need to be protected from their own ancestral history."

Murmurs spread across the table. Ngo Dac Vuong, sitting next to La Dieu Ninh, nodded slowly, his eyes heavy with thought. "I partially agree with Commissioner La." He said, his voice careful as usual. "I've taught generations of navigators to trust implicitly in a system I'm not allowed to fully explain to them. More and more cadets are asking questions I can't answer honestly. That's not sustainable, gentlemen. Not ethically, and not practically."

"This is crazy." Ton Khac Du stood up, his voice much harsher than before. "We are talking about opening up a wound that has been sewn shut for two hundred years, in the midst of growing unrest? This is not the time to experiment with the truth, Commissioner La. This is the time to consolidate order."

Chuong Khac Dinh sat silently for a long time, his eyes scanned each person in the room, finally stopping at Kieu Trong Nghiem, who had not said a word since the beginning of the session. "Commissioner Kieu, you are in charge of education throughout the ship. What do you think about the possibility of announcing part of the truth to the younger generation?"

Trong Nghiem felt like all eyes in the room were on him. This was the moment he had long feared, the moment that forced him to take a public stance, no longer able to hide behind the cautious neutrality he had maintained for so many years.

“I think,” he said slowly, weighing each word, “that both sides are partly right, and that makes this decision more difficult than any I have ever faced. Commissioner Sun is right that we cannot risk the survival of this entire ecosystem. But Commissioner La is also right that the prolonged silence has not brought the stability we promised, only a quieter kind of instability, waiting to explode.”

"So which side are you on, Kieu Trong Nghiem?" Ton Khac Du asked directly, not hiding his discomfort.

Trong Nghiem looked straight at Chuong Khac Dinh, the person who taught him from the first days he entered the Department of Instruction, the person he once trusted absolutely like a child believes in his father. "I think we need more time before deciding on the irreversible, Elder. Both the maximum tightening and the announcement of the truth are doors that, once opened, cannot be closed."

That wasn't an answer, and he knew it. But that was the only answer he could give right now, when his son, though he didn't say it, was part of the reason he couldn't choose sides as decisively as the others in the room.

Chuong Khac Dinh nodded slowly, not satisfied but accepted that answer. "We will postpone the final decision until next week's plenary session. In the meantime, Commissioner Ton, you can increase supervision, but you are not allowed to take extreme measures without the consent of the Council."

Ton Khac Du clenched his jaw, clearly dissatisfied, but nodded to accept the order. The session ended in an unprecedented tense atmosphere, each person left the room with their own thoughts, new alliances were silently forming behind the facade of solidarity that the Star Council always tried to present to all residents.

Kieu Trong Nghiem finally walked out of the Conference Hall, stopped for a moment in the empty hallway, looked out at the window simulating the universe outside, thought of his son, of the young woman in the Root Layer that he guessed Bach Van was protecting even though he never admitted it, and of a question he didn't dare ask out loud even to himself: was he trying to protect his son with that neutrality, or was he just postponing the moment when he was forced to face the fact that he had taught thousands of children? child believes in something he is no longer sure is true.