“Those were decommissioned.”
“Not for me.”
I trust that tone—the one that meansdon’t argue.
Drel’s already moving. “I’ll stall the lockdown timer. Get her out, Commander.”
I grab his sleeve. “Drel?—”
He smiles, tired and calm. “Someone’s got to stay and make it look like an accident. Go.”
The floor vibrates as bulkhead locks engage above us. Sirens claw at my eardrums.
Vael grips my wrist. His hand is hot metal and pulse. “Rynn.”
“I’m coming.”
We sprint.
The med-wingcorridor is a strobing tunnel of red light and chemical haze. The recycled air smells burnt, tangy with coolant and fear. My boots slap the floor; his heavier stride thunders behind. At every junction, doors are sealing—hydraulics shrieking as blast shields fall.
“Left,” Vael barks.
I slide around a corner, nearly collide with a med-bot whirring blind in the chaos. Its voice repeatsplease remain calmuntil Vael kicks it aside.
“Thirty seconds!” he shouts over the klaxons.
I shove open the last manual hatch before the AI can lock it. The edge scrapes my palms raw, metal biting skin.
The access shaft yawns below—narrow, vertical, lined with maintenance rungs slick from condensation. Hot air rises from the depths, carrying the scent of ozone and oil.
“Go,” Vael orders.
I hesitate just long enough to glare at him. “You’re twice my size. You first.”
He bares his teeth in what might be a grin and swings onto the ladder, dropping fast. Sparks dance off the servo seams along his arm as he descends.
I follow, boots slipping once on a wet rung. My breath echoes loud in the confined shaft. Above, a thunderclap—doors sealing, sealing, sealing. The station is swallowing itself.
When my feet hit the lower platform, the air is thicker, warmer, humming with the reactor’s proximity. The tunnel ahead is a vein of dim light and noise.
Vael points down it. “Stay close.”
We run again.
The walls sweat condensation. Every step kicks up the sharp tang of rust and lubricant. Somewhere far above, muffled shouts trade with the thud of boots—security teams scrambling with no idea who the villains are anymore.
The sirens fade to a low, constant moan. In their place: the whisper of coolant lines, the rhythmic click of Vael’s prosthetic as it adjusts for speed.
He glances back. “You okay?”
“Define okay.”
He huffs something that might be a laugh. “Still talking. Good sign.”
I almost smile. Almost.
We reach a junction where the tunnel splits three ways. Vael halts, checks a small wrist display flickering with static. “East passage leads to the vent grid—dead end now. West runs under command—too hot. South goes straight to the cargo locks.”
