Chapter 9 — The Ship That Never Looks Back

The Box at the Bottom of the Cabinet

Khe Lam dropped the wrench for the third time that morning, and this time Trinh Yen My could no longer maintain the sympathetic silence as before.

"What's wrong with you?" Yen My bent down to pick up the tools and put them back in her friend's hands, her voice both worried and a little annoyed. "Since the day I came back from maintaining the Primordial Core, I feel like I've lost my soul. I don't eat enough, don't sleep enough, and now I can't even hold a wrench. Is there something wrong?"

It had been five days since the afternoon Khe Lam read the text about the Lam Chu star system, and in those five days, she had barely had a full night's sleep. The old toolbox hidden at the bottom of the closet, where her personal note-taking device was kept, became an invisible anchor that pulled her mind toward it every time she tried to focus on anything else — work, meals, even the usual gossip with her teammates.

"I'm fine," Khe Lam replied, taking the wrench back and bending down to continue working to avoid her friend's judgmental eyes. "Probably because the recent maintenance was too tiring, and I haven't recovered yet."

"You lied." Yen My spoke frankly, without beating around the bush - one of the things Khe Lam always appreciated about her best friend, even though right now that straightforwardness made her more awkward. "In the eight years we've worked together, I know when you're really tired and when you're hiding something. You don't have to tell me everything if you don't want to, but don't lie and say you're fine."

Khe Lam stopped and looked at her friend for a long moment. There was a moment when she almost blurted out everything — about the handwritten sticker, about the calibration station, about the name Lam Chu that had been smoldering in her head for the past five days like a coal that refused to go out. But then she thought of Bui Dac Sinh's warning, of the level four door, of her father — and she swallowed it all back.

"It's just a family matter." A half-truth, she said, was enough to avoid an outright lie. "I don't want to say much, I hope you understand."

Yen My looked at her for a few more seconds, then nodded, not pressing further — a respect that Khe Lam was both grateful for and felt guilty for taking advantage of to keep it a secret. "Okay. But if you need anything, just say so. Don't carry it alone."

That sentence stayed in Khe Lam's mind all day long, a gentle reminder of what she was losing when she chose to stay silent — the closeness she had with her best friend, the feeling of being understood that she had for the past eight years, was now replaced by a thin but increasingly obvious distance.

***

In the evening, she tried looking up one more time, this time from the public workstation at the neighborhood library — where any resident had basic access to the Memory of Origin system. She typed "Lam Chu star system" into the search box, her heart pounding in her chest.

No results found.

She tried "decision number 041-H", but nothing happened. She searched for information about the ship's navigational history, about the first years of its voyage, hoping to find at least one indirect mention — but all public documents about that period spoke in general terms of "the initial stabilization process", "technical challenges were overcome", with no specific numbers or names related to the change of direction.

She sat quietly in front of the public screen, surrounded by other residents looking up all kinds of everyday information — recipes, genealogical history, advancement exam preparation materials — completely unaware of the feeling of confusion that was overtaking her. An elderly woman sitting at the next table was giggling with her young grandchild over a cake recipe made from algae powder. That happy sound felt strangely out of place in Khe Lam's ears, as if she were standing in another world, parallel but completely separate from the peaceful world in which everyone around her still lived.

If an event as massive as the re-destination of an entire ship can be wiped from all public records, leaving no trace beyond a faint handwritten sticker and a truncated data file, how many other things had been erased in the same way, silently, without anyone noticing? She thought of children like Vinh, growing up trusting absolutely in a report card, in an exam, in a promise of Tinh Vong — unaware that even the most basic foundation of the worldview they were building could have been changed long before they were born, by people who never had to explain why.

On the way home, she turned through the familiar side passage leading to the Day Deck, her heart heavy with the need to talk to someone more knowledgeable than her, even if it was just to ask vague questions that wouldn't reveal too much.

Bui Dac Sinh was sitting in his usual position, his hands busy with a small machine that had disassembled parts all over the table. He looked up when he saw her, and there was something in his eyes—a quick flicker of wariness, almost imperceptible without knowing him for many years—that made Khe Lam more certain that he knew more than he was letting on.

"She's coming again, didn't she bring the copper wire this time?" He asked, his voice still joking as usual, but Khe Lam noticed a new wariness in the way he looked at her.

"I forgot." She sat down in the chair across from her, trying to organize the question in her mind so that it was vague enough to be safe but specific enough to get an answer. "Mr. Sinh, have you ever heard a name — other than Tinh Vong — mentioned as another ship's destination?"

His hand stopped on the part he was disassembling, only for a very short moment, but enough for Khe Lam to notice. He put down his tools and stared at her, the expression on his wrinkled face changing from surprise to something akin to fear.

"Where did you hear that?" He asked; his voice had completely lost its joking tone.

"I... read it while working." Khe Lam replied, trying not to lie completely but also not revealing too much. "An old sticker, a clipped file. I'm just curious."

Bui Dac Sinh was silent for a long time, long enough for Khe Lam to think that maybe he wouldn't answer any more, like before. But this time, when he opened his mouth, his voice trembled slightly, different from his usual calmness.

"Little girl, there are curious things that shouldn't go any further." He said, his eyes quickly glancing towards the door as if checking to see if anyone else could hear, even though this area was almost always deserted at this hour. "I'm not saying you're wrong for being curious. I'm just saying that there are names that, once you start asking about them, will cause other people to start asking about you. And not everyone who asks about you has good intentions."

"You know what that name is, right?" Khe Lam asked directly, unable to hold back anymore. "You know what happened."

He looked at her for a long time, his hazy eyes shining with a deep sadness that Khe Lam had never seen in him before, even when he talked about his personal losses in his life.

"You know some of it." He spoke finally, his voice just a whisper. "But the part I know has caused me to lose the people I value most, little girl. I don't want it to take away anyone else, especially you." He paused, then continued, each word slowly as if weighing the danger of the words he was about to utter. "If you have read that name somewhere, keep it hidden, and never mention it in front of anyone wearing a dark gray uniform with a metal shoulder badge."

Council Guard. Khe Lam immediately remembered the image of the captain with broad shoulders and cold eyes scanning the crowd during the Target Orientation Ceremony. She nodded slowly, even though inside her mind the questions became more and more instead of less.

"Thank you." She said, standing up, knowing she wouldn't be able to stop thinking about this conversation for days to come.

"Go home, little girl." Bui Dac Sinh said, returning with the unfinished part, but his hands were not as steady as when she first arrived. "And next time, don't bring this question here again. It's not because I don't want to help you. It's because walls, no matter how old, still have ears."

On the way home, Khe Lam walked slower than usual, her mind reeling from the old man's last words. There are walls that still have ears. She looked around the dark corridors, familiar hidden corners suddenly becoming more suspicious than ever, and for the first time since starting maintenance eight years ago, she felt that the ship — the only home she had ever known — was no longer quite as safe as she thought.