“Cargo locks mean open ground,” I say. “Open ground means evac ships.”
“Or firing squads.”
“Optimist.”
He smirks. “Realist.”
We take the south.
The further we go, the older the infrastructure gets—weld seams thick and uneven, the walls painted with layers of dust that dull our footsteps. The air tastes of copper and machine sweat.
Every few meters, Vael slows, listening. His hearing’s better than mine; Vakutan reflexes sharpen in tension. I catch only echoes—the far-off grind of doors, a hiss of released pressure.
When we pass a grate, I glance up and see through the mesh a glimpse of the command deck above: figures running, screens flashing red, the watchdog AI barking orders no one understands.Chaos ignites inside the Corven-7 command deck.And somewhere up there, Tarek’s name is still flashing in blood-bright letters.
For a second, the satisfaction is sharp enough to taste. Then the fear swallows it whole.
Because if Tarek’s exposed, he’s dangerous. Cornered animals bite hardest.
The tunnel narrows into a crawlspace. Vael goes first, shoulders scraping metal. His voice drifts back, low. “Once wehit the outer lock, we’ll need to cross the flood basin. I’ll take point.”
“Fine by me.”
“Stay behind me, no matter what you see.”
I want to argue, but his tone leaves no room.
We crawl. The metal is freezing through my palms, but sweat slides down my spine. The smell down here is rot mixed with ozone—old water and newer wiring. I can taste the electricity.
Somewhere close, the intercom bursts alive again, muffled but unmistakable:
“All personnel to red sectors. Apprehend subjects Sorala?Rynn and Draykorr?Vael. Use of force authorized.”
My stomach knots. “They’ve tagged us.”
“They’ll have to catch us,” he says.
The crawlspace ends in a maintenance hatch bolted from the other side. Vael braces and punches through the lock with his mechanical arm. The metal buckles with a sound like thunder.
He pulls the hatch open and hauls me through into another corridor—this one lit only by emergency strips, the light trembling pale green. It smells faintly of dust and coolant; the air vibrates with pressure.
Somewhere far behind, boots echo—distant, but too many.
“Keep moving.”
I do. Because stopping means thinking, and thinking means feeling the terror crawling under my ribs.
We turn another corner. The corridor widens into a low chamber lined with pipes as thick as my torso. Steam leaks from one, misting the air in waves that taste like salt and metal. My throat burns.
Vael wipes condensation from his visor. “Almost there.”
“How can you tell?”
“I remember this place.”
Of course he does. He was stationed here before everything went to hell.
We pass an access panel where faint light spills from a crack—outside light. Cold, blue-white. My pulse jumps.
