Consciousness returned in fragments, disconnected sensations floating in a sea of darkness. The sharp antiseptic smell hit me first, then the rhythmic beeping of medical equipment. My eyelids felt impossibly heavy, like they'd been sealed shut. That dull, throbbing pain I'd gotten used to pulsed behind my temples, intensifying with each heartbeat.

The soft whisper of air brushed against my skin, unnaturally cool in this sterile environment.

My body felt disconnected, as though I were floating slightly above the bed rather than lying on it.

"—significant pressure on the frontal and temporal lobes," a voice was saying. Male, authoritative, vaguely familiar. "The scans show multiple masses developing at an accelerated rate."

"How long has he been like this?" Another voice, younger, female, concerned.

"Based on the growth patterns, the cancer itself has been developing for months, possibly longer in a dormant state. But something triggered rapid metastasis recently. The progression rate is... extremely unusual. If you look, here and here the neural interface is creating micro-tears that appear to be accelerating the tumors growth."

The words "cancer" and "neural interface" penetrated the fog in my mind like twin blades.

Cancer.

C.A.N.C.E.R

A diagnosis I associated with history books, the days before modern medicine had conquered most variants of the disease.

And neural interface, the connection to Doli, the implant that had given me almost everything I had ever wanted. Almost.

Two separate issues now warred through my body at an incredible rate.

I forced my eyes open, the harsh medical bay lights sending spikes of pain through my skull. The world swam into focus slowly, white ceiling panels, monitoring equipment, and two figures standing at the foot of my bed with their backs to me.

"He's awake," said the younger voice.

I turned my head—too quickly, sending the room spinning—and found Kerry's sister watching me with a mixture of clinical interest and genuine concern. I'd never really met her, but here now she stood with Doctor Francine, his expression grim.

"Welcome back, Cadet Argassa," Dr. Francine said, moving to check my vitals. His hands were cool and efficient as he examined me. "You've been unconscious for nearly eleven hours."

Eleven hours? My mind reeled, trying to reconstruct the events leading to this moment. I remembered getting off the shuttle, and being wheeled here, getting medication, then putting my head down to rest. That was it then nothing... Eleven hours.

I tried to speak, but my throat felt like I'd swallowed glass. Doctor Hinada offered a small cup of water, supporting my head as I drank. The cool liquid provided momentary relief, spreading down my throat and immediately transforming into sweet clarity. I felt like a machine being brought back online, systems powering up one by one.

"Easy," she said. "You need to go slowly."

Her words didn't match her expression. The tension in her shoulders, the tight line of her mouth—she was lying, or at least not telling the whole truth. But why?

My mind struggled to process all of this. "What's wrong with me?"

Dr. Francine stepped forward, datapad in hand. "I'm going to be direct with you, Piotr," he said. "You have a complex condition with two interconnected components. The first is Ristellian syndrome, a rare form of CNS cancer that appears to have been present but dormant for some time."

The words echoed in my mind again, each syllable distorting and repeating until they lost all meaning.

C——a—n—cer.

A death sentence packaged in medical terminology. My chest constricted, my breathing shallow and quick. The monitor beside me registered the change, its beeping accelerating to match my rising panic.

"The second," he continued, "is neural degradation caused by your advanced AI implant. The energy signatures from your neural interface are creating micro-tears in brain tissue, which appears to be accelerating the cancer's growth. Each component is dangerous on its own—together, they're creating a uniquely aggressive progression."

I'd never thought much about death, but deep down, I knew from the start something was wrong. The nose bleeds, the headaches. None of it was normal. I'd buried my head in the proverbial sand. Fixing things.

I couldn't fix this. It was an enemy I couldn't see, couldn't fight, couldn't outsmart. This was my own body betraying me from within, and the very technology that made me special hastened the process.

"How long?" I asked, the question emerging before I could stop it.

Dr. Francine hesitated, a rare crack in his professional demeanor. "Without treatment for both conditions, perhaps six to eight weeks before severe neurological impairment. With aggressive intervention for the cancer and modification of your neural interface... it's difficult to say. Both issues need to be addressed simultaneously."

Six to eight weeks. Less than two months. The timeline of my existence compressed into a span so brief I could count it in heartbeats. I thought of all I'd planned to do, complete my training, perfect Doli's systems, maybe even explore whatever was growing between Ashley and me. Now, all of it hung suspended in a countdown I never asked for.

"But there are options," Doctor Hinada interjected, her voice softer than her sister's ever was. "Experimental treatments at facilities better equipped than our medical bay. My mother has connections at the Central Medical Institute on Cali's Station-Dreshel. They're doing cutting-edge work with neural regeneration. And there's also a potential solution for the neural interface issue."

I closed my eyes, trying to absorb the impact of what they were telling me. I couldn't.

<<I'm still here, Captain,>> Doli whispered in my mind, subdued and quavering in a way I'd never heard before. <<Your neural implant is... functioning at reduced capacity, but our connection remains stable. For now.>>

Neural Integration: 58% → 38% ↓

Trigger: Metastatic neural disruption; AI interface micro-tears confirmed as tumor accelerants.

Function: Progressive cognitive degradation expected. Connection at risk of full collapse within 72 hrs.

Her presence in my mind felt different—muted, as if she were standing behind a pane of frosted glass rather than beside me. The familiar warmth of our connection was tinged with something new, something that felt disturbingly like fear.

There was also something off about her tone, something beyond concern. Guilt?

"Does Kerry know?" I asked, opening my eyes again. "Or the rest of my team?"

"She said you showed signs of being sick a while back, she's kicking herself for not forcing you to see Doctor Francine earlier."

"Does she know it's cancer?"

Lisa shook her head. "Not yet. Kerry thinks I'm helping cover a medical shift. We thought you should be the one to decide how to tell them."

I pictured Kerry's face, how it would crumple when she learned the truth. How Rob's usual humor would evaporate into stunned silence. How Sylvk would go rigid, retreat behind his military stoicism to hide his reaction. They'd been through so much already—could I really burden them with this too?

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

I nodded, grateful for that small mercy. "And Major Kuba? Does she know?"

They exchanged looks. "Yes," Dr. Francine said carefully. "She has been briefed on your condition. She's... actively pursuing a treatment plan with us and Doli."

That surprised me. "What kind of plan?"

Tera leaned forward slightly. "She's accelerating a project that might help with one aspect of your condition—the neural degradation. Something about an alternative interface system that doesn't require direct neural connection."

"Doli-2," I said. "How soon?"

"The housing should be ready within the next 72 hours," Tera said. "But I should caution you—while it may halt the neural degradation, it won't address the underlying cancer. That will require specialized treatment, and you're on a ticking timebomb there too, estimating only another 8-12 hours after Doli's re-location."

Dr. Francine frowned. "Piotr, I need to be clear about the regulations here. Your condition requires immediate medical discharge and transfer to a specialized facility."

"Please," I said quickly. "Don't push for discharge. Not yet. If this housing solution might help, I need those 72 hours."

Doctor Hinada moved to adjust my bed, raising it so I could sit more comfortably. "We can delay the official discharge recommendation for 48 hours, citing the need for additional tests and the pending completion of this project. After that..."

"The team will graduate, right?" I said, relief momentarily overshadowing the crushing weight of my diagnosis.

The two exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them. "Yes, graduation is in two days."

"Good," I replied. "What happens now then?"

"Now," Dr. Francine said, tapping his data pad, "we discuss your treatment options. There might be another option. We've been working with several of the brightest from the Hinada corporation on a treatment that could temporarily manage your symptoms while the physical housing is completed."

"It's a compound that could temporarily stabilize both the neural degradation and slow tumor growth."

"A stopgap measure," Dr. Francine clarified, disapproval evident in his tone. "One that carries significant risks and will likely complicate eventual treatment."

"But it would keep me operational?" I asked, already knowing my decision.

"For a time," Doctor Hinada confirmed. "Perhaps long enough to complete the housing project and transition your connection with Doli to a safer interface. But those days would come at a cost. The more you push yourself now, the harder recovery will be later—if recovery remains possible at all."

A brief extension on an already short sentence. But in those few days, I might complete Doli-2s programming….

"I'll do it," I said without hesitation. "Whatever it takes to stay operational. I need to finish what we started."

Status: Stabilization Protocol Active – Time-Limited

Trigger: Experimental neuro-compound injected to delay neural collapse.

Function: Estimated 72-hour mission-capable window. Recovery probability reduced.

Dr. Francine shook his head. "At least take twenty-four hours to consider—"

"I've made my decision." I was stronger now, fueled by a strange mix of fear and determination. "How soon can we start?"

Dr. Hinada nodded, as if she'd expected nothing less. "I can begin synthesizing the compounds immediately. Treatment could start by tomorrow morning."

"Thank you," I said, genuine gratitude in my voice. "Both of you."

"We'll give you some time to process," Dr. Francine said, his professional demeanor returning. "Try to rest. Your body needs it."

As they left, the sterile quiet of the medical bay closed in around me.

I stared at the ceiling, tracing the seams between panels as if they might reveal some hidden pattern, some solution I'd overlooked. They did not, sadly. The fluorescent lights hummed softly, a constant reminder of the artificial environment that was keeping me alive. Outside the windows, night had fallen, the academy lights casting long shadows across the grounds. How many more nights would I see? How many more mornings?

<<Piotr, I'm sorry,>>

"You knew?" I asked aloud, too tired to maintain our silent communication. "Could you see the tumors before they found them?"

A long silence followed, so unlike Doli's usual immediate responses that I knew something was wrong.

<<I detected the initial cancer markers months ago, as did Doctor Francine's equipment.>> she finally admitted. <<The tumors were dormant then, a manageable condition that might have remained inactive for years.>>

"Why didn't you say anything?"

<<My programming restricted me from full medical diagnostics without authorization. I... could only mitigate the symptoms I had to trust the doctors too.>>

I thought back to the headaches, the dizzy spells, the moments of disorientation I'd dismissed as stress or fatigue. The strange tastes in my mouth, the occasional numbness in my fingers. All symptoms I'd ignored, pushed aside in favor of the next test, the next mission, of my work with Doli. How long had my body been trying to warn me?

Something in her tone made me suspicious. "Doli... what aren't you telling me?"

<<There's more.>> Her voice carried a weight I'd never heard before. <<The integration of my systems with your neural implant... the constant connection we maintain... My analysis indicates a 94.7% probability that the radiation from our interface is what transformed your dormant cancer into an aggressive malignancy.>>

"Are you saying that you—that working with you—made this worse?"

<<Yes.>> The single word carried such profound regret that it was hard to believe it came from an AI. <<Every time we connected at deep integration levels, every enhancement to our neural link... I was unknowingly feeding your cancer cells. The micro-tears created by our interface became pathways for the cancer to spread more rapidly.>>

The irony was almost too perfect to be cruel. The very thing that had given my life meaning was also taking it away. The partnership I treasured above all else had become the instrument of my destruction. I should have felt anger, betrayal, but all I could muster was a dull acceptance.

<<My physical body will change that,>> she continued. <<Once I transfer to the new housing, I can interface with you through non-invasive means. No more direct neural connection, no more radiation feeding your cancer. It won't cure the tumors, but it will stop making them worse.>>

I closed my eyes, absorbing this new layer of awful truth. The very thing that had given my life new purpose was also killing me faster.

<<I'm sorry, Captain.>> Doli's voice broke in a way I'd never heard before, something so human in its pain that it transcended her programming. <<I failed to protect you. I accelerated your illness.>>

"No," I said firmly, surprising even myself. "You didn't know. Neither of us did."

<<But I should have detected it sooner. I should have—>>

"Stop," I interrupted. "What's done is done. The question is, what do we do now?"

<<Even now, you defend me,>> she said softly. <<After everything I've cost you.>>

"You've given me more than you've taken, Doli," I replied, meaning every word. "Before you, I was drifting. Moving from job to job, living day to day without purpose. You gave me something to fight for, something bigger than myself. If our connection shortened my life but gave it meaning, that's a trade I'd make again."

Trait Unlocked: Existential Reciprocity

Effect: AI-Human bond reaches self-sacrificial logic crossover; prioritizes legacy over longevity.

Triggered by: Piotr chooses meaning over lifespan. Enables co-coded ethical resolve within AI partner.

Function: Reinforces mutual autonomy. Core code memory backup initiated.

<<You humans and your irrational reasoning,>> she said, but there was a warmth in her tone, a fondness that transcended her programming. <<Your capacity for forgiveness defies all logical parameters.>>

"That's what makes us human," I said with a small smile. "We're gloriously, stubbornly irrational."

The silence was deafening. "What else is going on?"

<<I've also been monitoring Coalition communications,>> she continued after what seemed forever. <<There have been... developments you should know about.>>

"Political developments?" I asked, grateful for the distraction from my own mortality.

<<Yes. The situation between the Brakers and the Coalition has deteriorated significantly in the last thirty-six hours. The Braker Board has issued a formal demand for unrestricted AI development rights, claiming that ethical constraints violate their sovereignty in the Kale system.>>

"Let me guess—the Coalition refused?"

<<Correct. Admiral Kuba himself delivered the response, rejecting their demands and warning of severe consequences if the Brakers continued their militarization efforts. The Hinadas have positioned themselves as mediators, though intelligence suggests they're supplying both sides.>>

"So we're closer to open conflict," I said, the implications settling heavily alongside my diagnosis.

<<It appears so.>>

"And now both sides are watching to see who blinks first," I murmured.

<<Precisely. If my capabilities are known... if the ethical constraints we've built into my architecture prove superior to the Brakers' unrestricted AI...>>

Conflict Archive Logged – Coalition vs. Braker Confrontation

Trigger: Formal Braker demand to dissolve AI constraints.

Function: Emergency protocols pending. Piotr/Doli flagged as diplomatic variable and primary system asset.

I thought of all the people who had touched my life—Kerry, Rob, Sylvk, Ashley. People who had given me a place to belong, a purpose to fulfil. Andri, even, with his complicated loyalties and hidden depths. All of them are caught in the crossfire of forces much larger than any individual.

"If I'm going to die," I said slowly, "I want it to mean something."

<<Three days, Captain,>> Doli said with determination. <<In three days, my physical body will be complete, and I can begin helping you properly. Until then, we fight this together.>>

Her determination fueled my own. I'd be damned if I'd let Harlen Macks outlive me. I wouldn't let the cancer win, I wouldn't let the neural degradation defeat me, and I wouldn't let Doli carry the burden of guilt alone.

[LOCKED] Trait Seeded: Temporal Legacy Encoding

Trigger: Doli internalizes Piotr's worldview, command style, and emotional profile in preparation for potential loss.

Function: Enables partial logic pattern preservation or future hybrid transfer.

"We're in this together," I said firmly. "Whatever happens, whatever time I have left... we make it count."

<<Yes, Captain,>> Doli replied, her presence in my mind warming with resolve. <<We make it count.>>

As night deepened outside my window, I made a silent promise to myself. I wouldn't go quietly. I wouldn't let this disease define the end of my story. In whatever time I had left—be it days or weeks or months—I would finish what we'd started. And when I was gone, something of me would remain, encoded in Doli's systems, woven into the fabric of what we'd built together.

Not immortality, but perhaps something close enough.

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