Chapter 26: The Math of Freedom

POV: Davin, a former slave

The light in the study hall buzzed softly, but not from torches or oil lamps. It was something deeper. Power that is real.

It flowed from the walls, humming through rune-carved channels in the stone. Davin couldn't see or name the source of the power.

He didn't like it.

He didn't like any of it.

The desk in front of him was too smooth. The chair is too hard.

And what about the stylus they gave him? It didn't even leave a mark; it glowed. It left marks on the slate surface that sparkled for a moment before turning into data.

Numbers, curves, and symbols.

Somebody, somewhere cared about them.

But not to him.

Not yet.

He looked at the slate with a glare that could have melted naquadah.

"Solve for X" blinked softly at the top of the screen, as if it were a personal insult.

He muttered, "This was easier when all I had to do was lift crates," and ran a hand through his long, dusty hair.

People around him were sitting quietly, some young and some not. Some of them looked like him: they talked rough, had calloused hands, and were used to carrying heavy things on their shoulders. Used to work on the docks. People who haul ships. People who clean. People who were slaves.

Not anymore.

That was the word.

No cost.

They said it like a present, like bread, water, and a roof over their heads.

But there were no instructions for freedom. It had a schedule with it.

A three-shift.

A list of things to study.

And math.

Math, gods.

"What is this squiggle, anyway?" Davin hissed and poked the stylus at a looping symbol. "It looks like a snake on its side."

"That's an integral," said a voice next to him. It was young, female, and sharp as broken glass and twice as cutting.

"Means the space under a curve. In a way."

He looked to the side with anger. The girl looked about fifteen, had tight braids, and eyes that looked like they were made of steel.

"I don't care if it means 'kiss the moon.' What do I need it for?"

She smiled. "Because you were put in House Hephaestus, genius." Do you want to make ships? "You should know how to figure out a thrust vector."

He let out a groan.  "I just wanted to work. Carry things. Eat. Sleep."

The girl leaned over, not impressed. "Then go back to sleeping in a box under someone's foot. This place? It's not the same. They'll show you how to make the box now. Or how to break it."

Davin looked at her, then at the stupid snake symbol again.

"I liked carrying crates," he said in a lower voice.

The truth was that he had tried to go back and rejoin the docks after the city changed.

But after three hours of working three shifts with auto-loaders doing half the work, he realized something:

They didn't need him anymore.

They needed brains.

And it seems that someone thought he had one.

He was now sitting in a hall full of people he didn't know, trying to multiply things that weren't even numbers anymore. Trying to learn from stars he hadn't seen before. Trying to figure out what "freedom" really meant, other than "homework."

Chains didn't come with schoolwork.

Still...

When the bell rang and the teacher walked by his table, she didn't make fun of him.

Did not hit him.

Didn't say he was slow or useless.

She just moved his slate, pointed to a different formula, and said,

"Use this one instead. The same problem. "Different shape."

And left.

Same issue. Another shape.

He gave it another shot. Not so fast. Still cursing in three different languages.

But halfway through the next equation, his stylus started to glow green.

That's right.

Only one answer. Just one little thing.

But it was his.

Davin — ex-slave, failed dockworker, reluctant student — sat back in stunned silence. Then, to no one in particular, he muttered:

"…Huh."

8 months later

He didn't remember going to sleep. One minute, he was bent over a desk, mumbling about "angles that don't angle," and the next—

Poke.

A stylus poked him in the ribs.

"Up," said Instructor Vira, who was already halfway down the row. "You're late for Selection."

He blinked. "Selection for what?"

She turned at the doorway, slate in hand. "Project teams. Real work. Proving ground. Someone saw your bridge design."

"What bridge?"

Vira looked at him. "The load-distribution model you wrote down on your slate two nights ago. The one you called "The Only Thing That Won't Fall Apart If You Sneeze On It."

"Oh." Davin scratched his head. "That was just me trying not to mess up  or fail."

"Well, good for you," she said. "You accidentally made it through phase one of the engineering cadet challenge. Get ready. "You're going to the shipyards."

The Skyforge of Laconia

It wasn't what he thought it would be.

Not a bright spire. Not a temple of light that floats in the air like a god.

It was steel, smoke, and heat.

Gantry platforms were like ribs that towered over him.

Magnetic suspension made the hull frames spin.

Drones flew over our heads like angry bees.

The air tasted like fire and plasma.

Davin smiled.

He got this.

A voice came from a platform above. A woman in copper robes who was very tall waved him over and held out a tablet. She looked tired, with greasy sleeves and sharp eyes behind soot.

"Are you the boy on the bridge?" she asked.

"I guess," he said with a shrug. "Unless someone else hates math more than I do."

She laughed. "Okay, now you're ours. "Look at that hull over there?"

He turned and almost fell.

It wasn't a model. It wasn't a fake.

It was the real deal.

Huge but not fully formed. The skeletal frame of a Cerberus-class Destroyer hung in space, slowly turning. The name L.I.S. Gryphon had been carved into its side in gold script that was still glowing.

"… That's not a training model," he said quietly.

"Nope." True. In the middle. "Assigned live," she said. "Your bridge diagram? We put it through the stress tests. It was eight percent better than the current model.

Davin blinked. "Eight?"

"You figured out something that people twice your age missed. "Probably by accident."

She didn't seem angry about it.

"We don't care. You solved the problem. Finish it now. If you do that, your name will be on the frame.

She gave him a work slate and then turned to leave.

He looked down.

Bridge Support #7-A

Davin, Academy ID 11943, Modified Load-Shell Model

He squinted at it.

"…It still looks like a drunk spider did the math."

But he did move.

He walked up to the hull. Toward the stage. Toward something that would fly one day.

That Night

His roommate, a former smuggler named Len, looked up from a text on interstellar fuel efficiency as Davin collapsed face-first onto the cot.

"You smell like burnt plasma."

"Built a warship," Davin said softly into the pillow. "Not a big deal."

Len blinked. "What's going on?"

"I said I built a damn warship," he said again, this time louder, as he rolled onto his back. Then, after a short pause, he said, almost sleepily:

"I still hate algebra, though."

But this time, he smiled when he said it.

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