She typed her final question for the night: What happens when I accept?
“Reset?” Leo whispered.
“It’s a version number,” said Leo, her engineer, peering over her shoulder. “Like something we’d flash onto a router.”
“Pilot?” Leo’s voice cracked.
Mira’s hands hovered over the keys. She hadn’t told anyone about the recurring dream: standing in a silver hangar, waiting for a ship that had her name carved into its fuselage. The dream always ended the same way—a voice, soft and vast, saying: You’re late. We updated without you.
