A distant roar of the station's impulse drive echoes through the hull. The smell of burnt ion exhaust lingers in the air, mixed with the sharp, clean bite of antiseptic—that distinct, soulless station smell.
Nefarious’s voice pings in my earpiece, cool and calm, a digital ghost in the machine. “All decks boarded. Pressure stabilizing. Station guards are relocating to the upper levels. You have a window.”
I nod faintly, though I’m not certain she can see me. I can’t speak. My throat’s dry as gravel.
Clint appears before me, steady as stone in his battle stance, rifle propped easily against his shoulder. He presses his hand briefly to my arm, grounding me. “Show me where, El.”
I swallow. Fear and desperation race like twin serpents inside me, coiling tight around my lungs. “This way.”
I lead them down narrow back corridors—hidden maintenance shafts I learned years ago when I was just a scrapper trying to disappear. Ones I memorized in the dark, crawling on hands and knees to bypass security grids. I never thought I’d be back here. I never thought I’d have so much to lose.
Behind us, Honeybear rumbles past, hauling a duffel bag full of heavy gear—grenades, emergency blankets, medkits—looking like a mountain in motion. Spewey slurps at his side, little spongy legs clicking on the grating.
Clint and I slip down a grated walkway, boots clinking softly. The hum of station life throbs around us: distant footsteps, ventilation vents breathing like mechanical lungs, the waterdrip-dripfrom a broken pipe somewhere behind the paneling.
We round a corner and nearly walk into a guard patrol.
Two soldiers in grey-accented uniforms, sidearms holstered. One is double-checking a corridor badge scanner; the otheris scanning the hall with a flashlight. Their voices are low, dismissive.
“...false alarm on sector 4...”
Kalow shifts beside us. Her form ripples, scales stacking, limbs widening with a sickening wet sound. In a heartbeat, she bulks into her Behemoth form—taller, broader, horns lengthened. She lumbers into the shadow of a support pillar, just enough to block the guards’ line of sight when their flashlight sweeps.
I freeze, breath caught in my throat. Takhiss flicks his hand slightly, a signal to hold fire.
The guards’ flashlight wanders past us, catching only the edge of Kalow’s massive shadow. They assume it's machinery. Neither looks twice.
We slip past.
My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird. I taste iron. My breath comes in sharp, shallow gasps.
Clint whispers, “You’re a ghost in these halls.”
I give him a grim, humorless smile. “Hopefully for a few minutes more.”
Every step I take, I feel Vex's absence. It’s a physical ache, a missing limb. Every corner echoes the memory of his laughter, the scuff of his little boots, the feeling of his thumb pressed into my palm.
We’re coming, baby. Hold on.
We reach the holding cell. The door is sealed behind a reinforced blast frame. The lock mechanism hums quietly—magnetic bolts sliding home.
I slide out a stolen override device from my pocket, heart thudding like a war drum. My fingers shake so bad I almost drop it. I press the pins.
Click.The lock yields.
The door slides open with a hydraulic hiss.
I rush in, ready to grab him, ready to fight.
But the cell is empty.
No crib. No blankets. The floor is polished clean. Walls bare. No mournful baby cry waiting for me.
“No,” I breathe.
I step in. I touch the cold floor. The walls. I search every inch with my eyes—under the cot, behind panels, above duct covers. Nothing.
The emptiness roars in my ears louder than any scream.
