The only out is through

"Our ship isn't fucked," Susan countered, her voice regaining its edge as she stared at the dormant, jagged heap of Eris on the dais. "She's just... redistributed."

She looked at the *Stormcrow’s* ruined interior—the scorched wiring, the weeping coolant pipes, and the flickering panels that looked like a digital autopsy. Then she looked at Eris. The AI wasn't just a passenger; she was a living alloy, a masterpiece of programmable matter that had once shifted from a surgical probe to a pleasure-strap without missing a beat. If Eris was "fractured," it meant she was currently a collection of high-grade, sentient components floating in a half-solid state.