"Put it down, Enzo. For the love of God, put it down."

I looked at Marco, my lieutenant, my friend of ten winters, and saw the fear in his eyes, a fear that had nothing to do with the siege outside and everything to do with the thing in my hands. The obsidian mirror was heavy, heavier than it had been a week ago, as if it were accumulating the weight of the air itself. My palms were slick with blood, not from a wound, but from the friction of holding something that refused to be held. The citadel walls, damp with the condensation of the generation ship’s recycled atmosphere, wept a constant, cold sweat. We were three hundred light-years from Earth, in a hill town built into the hull of the vessel, and the only thing more cold than the walls was the silence of the shift bells, which rang for a shift no one worked.

I did not put it down. I could not. The mirror was cracked, a spiderweb fracture running from the top left corner to the center, and through that fracture, I could see my own face, but it moved a second too late. When I raised my hand to wipe the blood from my forehead, the reflection raised its hand a beat later, a lag in time that made my stomach turn. The order had given this to me. The order, which ran on a council of shifts and a strict economy of labor, had placed this artifact in my berth as a tool of the warden. I was a midwife, born on the ship, third generation, and my trade was to pull life into the world, not to guard a gate that led nowhere. But the duty was clear: keep the gate sealed. The gate to the lower decks, where the food politics turned ugly and the apprentices began to outshine their masters.

Marco stepped closer, his face pale under the dim, amber light of the corridor. "It’s a curse, Enzo. It’s eating you."

"It is a duty," I said, my voice rough. "The Order requires the gate to be sealed. The mirror is the lock."

"The Order is a lie." Marco’s voice was low, a whisper that carried the weight of betrayal. "I saw the files in the inspector’s office. The city inspector, the honest one, he told me. The mirror doesn’t protect us. It consumes us. It takes the pain, the strength, the life, and it feeds the ship. It’s a debt paid in labor, Enzo. And you are paying it with your blood."‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠⁠​‌​‍‌‌​⁠‍‍​‌‌​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍‍​⁠⁠‌​​‍‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​​‌⁠‍​‍⁠‍⁠​‌⁠‍‍‍‌

I looked at the mirror. The reflection’s mouth was moving, silent accusations forming on lips that did not match the words I was hearing. I thought of the men I had executed for minor infractions, for stealing rations, for arguing with the shift council. I had told them it was justice. I had told myself it was justice. But now, looking into the black glass, I saw their faces, not as I had known them, but as the mirror knew them: hollow, drained, their life force siphoned off to keep the engines running. I had not been protecting the people. I had been feeding the machine.

"You locked me in the armory," Marco said, his eyes hard. "For mutiny. For questioning the Order."

"I did what was required," I said, but the words tasted like ash. "The gate must stay sealed."

"The gate is a lie," Marco said. "There is no gate. There is only the hunger of the ship. And you are full. You are so full of their pain that you are breaking."

I looked at my hands. The bleeding had stopped, but the skin was black, as if the ink of the mirror had seeped into my flesh. I could feel the weight of it, the crushing weight of every soul I had touched, every life I had delivered into a world that demanded more labor than it gave back. The mirror was not a tool. It was a trap. And I was the bait.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠⁠​‌​‍‌‌​⁠‍‍​‌‌​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍‍​⁠⁠‌​​‍‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​​‌⁠‍​‍⁠‍⁠​‌⁠‍‍‍‌

I walked to the armory door. The metal was cold, vibrating with the hum of the ship’s engines. I pressed my ear to it. Marco was inside, weak from hunger, his voice muffled by the steel.

"Marco," I said. "Open the door."

"Why?"

"Because I need to let you out. Because I need to stop."

There was a long pause. Then the sound of the lock turning, the heavy clang of the door opening. Marco stood there, thin, his eyes bright with a fierce, destructive love for me, a love that had consumed everything else. He did not embrace me. He did not speak. He simply looked at the mirror in my hands, and then at me.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠⁠​‌​‍‌‌​⁠‍‍​‌‌​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍‍​⁠⁠‌​​‍‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​​‌⁠‍​‍⁠‍⁠​‌⁠‍‍‍‌

"Break it," he said.

"I can't," I said. "It’s part of me."

"Then you are dead," Marco said. "And I will bury you. But break it, Enzo. Break it before you break us all."

I looked at the mirror one last time. The reflection was gone. There was only the black glass, cracked and cold. I thought of the Earth photograph, sun-faded, kept in my locker. It showed a field, green and endless, a field that had never known the weight of a ship. I thought of the debt, the labor, the shift that no one worked. I thought of the forty-seven of Marsh Hollow, the apprentices who had been better than their masters, who had been silenced, whose voices had been absorbed into the stone. I thought of the Hollowbrook fishing fly, a tiny, intricate thing, cast into the dark water of the past, never to be retrieved.

I raised the mirror. I did not use a hammer. I used my hands. I pressed my bleeding palms against the glass, and I pushed. I pushed with all the strength I had left, all the strength I had taken from the dead, all the strength I had stolen from the living. The mirror did not shatter. It cracked. A single, sharp line appeared, running from the center to the edge. I pushed again. The line widened. The glass groaned, a sound like a man dying.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠⁠​‌​‍‌‌​⁠‍‍​‌‌​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍‍​⁠⁠‌​​‍‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​​‌⁠‍​‍⁠‍⁠​‌⁠‍‍‍‌

I let go.

The mirror fell to the floor. It did not break. It sat there, cracked but whole, reflecting the empty room. But the weight was gone. The pain in my hands was gone. The weight of the dead was gone. I felt light, so light that I could not stand. I fell to my knees, my body failing, my strength gone. The uncanny force had dissipated, but it had taken me with it.

The siege broke not by force, but by the arrival of a plague. The attackers, the ones who had been pounding on the outer hull, began to die. Their ships drifted, unmanned, their crews fallen silent. The gates opened, not because we forced them, but because there was no one left to close them. I watched from the courtyard, a hollow shell of a man, my want for survival transformed into a desire for release. Marco stood by me, the traitor who had saved me by forcing my surrender.

"Enzo," he said. "It’s over."

I looked at the shattered obsidian pieces scattered around me, like black seeds in the dirt. The wind blew, carrying the smell of the reeds, the braided landscape of the delta outside. I saw a single shard, lifted by the wind, catching the light of the sun, which was just a star now, distant and cold. It vanished, leaving only the silence of the empty citadel. I closed my eyes, and I let go. The field was planted anyway, the debt paid in labor, the shift ended. I was gone.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠⁠​‌​‍‌‌​⁠‍‍​‌‌​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍‍​⁠⁠‌​​‍‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​​‌⁠‍​‍⁠‍⁠​‌⁠‍‍‍‌