Chapter 79 — The Ship That Never Looks Back

Candle In The Corridor Of Roots

The Fishbone Corridor, where Bui Dac Sinh once lived in seclusion for decades, was filled with the light of hundreds of small homemade lamps on his memorial evening, each lighted by a Root Floor resident who had come to say goodbye to the old mechanic they never really knew but now considered part of their shared history. There were no formal ceremonies of the Hai Trinh Sutra performed — Bui Dac Sinh never belonged to any official system during his later years — only oral accounts, stories shared from person to person in the flickering light of hundreds of small lamps.

Khe Lam stood near the center of the ceremony, her hand holding a small lamp, her eyes following the ever-increasing stream of people throughout the evening. Trinh Yen My stood next to her, having been told part of the truth - not the whole thing, but enough to understand why Khe Lam was so sad - and held her friend's hand tightly in silent understanding.

"I can't believe it." Yen My whispered. "I've lived on the Root Floor all my life, I never thought a person like Mr. Sinh would have such a big story behind that quiet exterior."

"Maybe that's true for a lot of people here." Khe Lam replied, looking around at the candle-lit crowd, each face carrying its own story, its own pain, most of which have never been told publicly. "We just never had the opportunity, or the safety, to listen to all those stories."

Tram Ba Nguyen appeared late, standing at the edge of the crowd, not daring to step into the center of the ceremony, his face still etched with deep regret from the night of the incident. Khe Lam recognized him, walked over, didn't say anything, just gave him a small unlit lamp.

"He wouldn't want you to blame yourself forever like that." She said softly. "He chose to be there that night, he chose to protect you, because he believed in what you were trying to do, even though he was as afraid of the risks as the rest of us."

Tram Ba Nguyen received the lamp, his hand trembling as he lit it with a small fire passed from the person next to him. "I will carry his death with me for the rest of my life, my daughter. But I will also carry his words, that this is the only path that offers true hope."

Among the crowd, Khe Lam recognized a few unexpected faces - Ngo Dac Vuong, wearing civilian clothes instead of the official uniform of the Pilot Committee, stood quietly in a far corner, bowing his head in remembrance with people he had never met. A little further away, Than Bao Nghiem stood without a uniform, a small lamp in his hand, his eyes met Khe Lam's eyes for a brief moment, carrying a silent apology that he did not know how to express in words.

Than Bao Nghiem waited until the crowd around Khe Lam thinned out before daring to approach, keeping a cautious distance as if he was not sure whether he would be welcomed or not.

"I'm sorry." He said, his voice hoarse, as he finally stood facing her. "Because of everything that happened. Because I was part of the system that led to that night, despite my best efforts to slow it down."

Khe Lam looked at him for a long moment, remembering their first encounter in the Founding Archives, the fear she felt then, and now, standing before her was a man with a face of genuine torment. "I know you tried." She said finally. "Uncle Dang recounted that he ordered his team to withdraw to make room for the technical team, and called the medical team as soon as he saw someone injured. Without him, things would probably have been much worse."

"That wasn't enough to save him." Than Bao Nghiem said, his eyes directed towards the flickering candles in the hallway.

"No." Khe Lam admitted. "But it means where you chose to stand, when given the chance to choose. That's no small thing, captain, especially in a system that teaches people not to choose."

He nodded, a silent gratitude in his eyes at those words. "I don't know how much longer I'm going to keep doing this." He confessed. "But I know, whether I'm still in this position or not, I'll never look at it the same way again."

He bowed to her, then quietly left the crowd, blending into the darkness of the hallway, leaving Khe Lam with a new complicated feeling about the boundary between the people wearing the Guard uniform and the people actually wearing it, not all of whom were the same as she once assumed.

Near midnight, when the ceremony was winding down, a sudden announcement rang out through the public speaker system of the entire Root Floor, the familiar voice of Chuong Khac Dinh, recorded and broadcast from the Dome Floor.

"Residents of the Root Floor," his voice rang out, carrying a solemnity that was different from the usual administrative announcements, "I have learned of the death of Bui Dac Sinh, a man who sacrificed his life to protect others in a situation that should not have happened. I send my deepest condolences to his family and community."

The crowd was silent, all eyes turned to the nearest speaker, no one dared to believe what they were hearing.

"I would also like to announce," Chuong Khac Dinh continued, his voice slow as if weighing each word, "that the Star Council will form an independent committee, with representatives from all three layers, to review the decisions related to Safety Directive No. Dac Sinh, along with other losses in recent days, deserves to be responded to with something more meaningful than silence."

Murmurs spread through the crowd, a mixture of cautious suspicion and a faint glimmer of hope that many did not dare let themselves fully trust after so many years of disappointment.

Khe Lam stood still, feeling an unnameable complexity in her heart. This was what she and Bach Van had been hoping for months — a sign, however small, that the truth could be acknowledged in a controlled way, without resorting to violence. But the price for achieving that sign was the life of someone she loved, someone who had kept her mother's secret for nineteen years only to hand it over in her final moments.

Bach Van found her in the crowd and held her hand. "This is a step forward, Khe Lam. Perhaps the biggest step we've ever taken."

"I know." She said, her voice heavy. "But I wish it didn't cost him his life. I wish there was a way to get to the same result without anyone having to lie down before those in power would listen."

Bach Van had no answer to that wish, just squeezed her hand tighter, both of them silently looking at the slowly burning candles, each small flame as a fragile promise that Bui Dac Sinh's sacrifice would not be completely meaningless, even though the price was still too great for any of them to truly feel relieved.

On the Dome Floor, Kieu Trong Nghiem listened to the announcement in his private room, sitting alone in front of the simulated window, his hands shaking slightly when he realized that this was exactly what Ung Bao Trung and La Dieu Ninh had been trying to convince the Council for many weeks, now finally accepted by Chuong Khac Dinh, even at the cost of a human life. He wondered if his decision to be neutral, his choice to side with safety instead of right, was part of the reason why the road to this concession had to be through more suffering than necessary. He could not find a satisfactory answer. He only felt a new, silent but persistent burden that would continue to haunt him in his upcoming decisions.

They stood there, among hundreds of flickering candles in the Fishbone Corridor, a fragile moment of solidarity between people from all walks of life, all factions, sharing a common pain and a common ray of hope, although none of them, including Khe Lam, was certain that moment would be strong enough to heal the cracks that had formed so deeply in the trust of an entire community.