General Croft is present via secure holographic projection, her military bearing rigid. Dr. Evans, the adapted human botanist, is sitting at the console beside Morgan, his forearms traced with the faint, bioluminescent golden veins of the Adapted.
"The drones have positioned the titanium struts," Morgan says, her fingers flying across the keyboard. "But the lunar regolith isn't binding to the base. The gravity fluctuations from the Third Anchor are scattering the dust. If we can't stabilize the foundation, the Prism will collapse under its own weight."
I look at the holographic model. The massive, forty-meter diameter lattice is glowing red at the base, indicating structural failure.
It’s the geometry, Elara says softly.
She steps out from the shadows of the room. She is nine years old
