“Second right,” Carys said.
The turn came up fast. I took it hard. My shoulder hit the wall. Pain flared but I pushed through.
The service access door stood ahead. Reinforced metal. Biometric lock.
“Flinx!” Carys shouted.
The synthetic cat leaped from my shoulder to the door’s control panel. His data-ports extended. Connected. The lock’s indicator shifted from red to green.
The door opened.
We plunged into the service tunnels. Dark. Cramped. The walls pressed close on both sides. Emergency lighting was sparse here.
Behind us, guards reached the door, their weapons’ targeting lasers cutting through the darkness.
“Keep moving,” I said.
The tunnel branched.
“Flinx, status,” I ordered, aimed at Carys.
Flinx’s voice came from her comm, tinny and strained. She relayed it instantly.
“He says it’s bad. Tarsus is mobilizing his entire security force. Full building lockdown. Three-minute timer. His scans show eight of his elite guards at the hangar entrance. They know where we’re going.”
Three minutes. A blocked exit. And Tarsus’s private army at our backs.
“We’re trapped,” Carys said, her voice tight.
“Not yet.” I had to make a choice. “Flinx. The lockdown. Can you delay it?”
Carys listened. “He says maybe. But he’ll have to divert all power. He’ll lose navigation and sensors. We’ll be on our own.”
“Do it.”
Back on my shoulder Flinx’s eyes dimmed, all his processing power diverted to fighting Tarsus’s building security systems.
I grabbed Carys’s hand. “Stay close.”
The corridor opened into a junction. Four paths. No Flinx to guide us.
“Carys!”
“Left! The hangars are on the perimeter. Left!” she yelled, pulling me with her. She knew this. This was her plan.
We ran.
Guards appeared ahead. Six of them. Mondian. Armed.
I pulled Carys into a side passage. Pulses hit the wall where we’d been standing. Molten metal. Scorched stone.
“We’re pinned,” Carys said.
The guards advanced. Covering each other. Professional movements. This wasn’t the Krelaxian patrol. This was Tarsus’spersonal guard. Mondians, all of them. Armed with military-grade gear.
I checked my stolen blaster. Forty percent charge. Maybe six shots left.
Not enough.
