I leave Tarek where he lies.
And I walk toward the man who didn’t flinch when the whole damn system turned on him.
CHAPTER 27
RYNN
The second we clear the pad, I swear I stop breathing.
Tarek's body shrinks behind us—limp, smoking, unimportant now. It’s the gate ahead I care about. That final arch of reinforced steel, the blinking perimeter beacon, the carved-in scars from shuttles past ripping atmosphere open as they burned skyward.
Vael’s weight is on me more than I want to admit. His arm’s slung over my shoulder, not entirely from affection. The neural disruptor hit him harder than he’s letting on, and I can feel the tremble in his steps like a rhythm out of sync.
But he keeps moving. We both do.
Kael’s stolen ship waits where he said it would—tucked under the old cargo bluff, hull paint scorched, port stabilizers humming like a broken fridge. It’s ugly, half-patched, and probably allergic to autopilot.
It’s perfect.
I punch the access key. The ramp hisses open.
We scramble inside just as the warning klaxons shift octaves again.
“LOCKDOWN INITIATED. ORBITAL DEPARTURE CORRIDORS SEALED IN T-MINUS NINETY SECONDS.”
“Close it, close it, close it,” I mutter, hauling Vael up the ramp.
The door grinds shut with an agonizing delay, like even the ship doesn’t want to be part of this.
I stumble toward the pilot’s seat. The controls are mostly analog, thank all the stars. Digital flight nets would’ve been overridden by now. I scan the panel for power distribution, coax the throttle system online. The engines respond like grumpy mules—sluggish, loud, reluctant—but they respond.
“Main reactors are live,” I pant. “But the nav relay’s jammed.”
Vael slumps into the co-pilot seat beside me, one hand gripping the edge of the console like it’s the only thing tethering him to this reality. “Manual launch?”
“You up for it?”
He doesn’t answer. Just reaches across me and flips three switches in perfect sequence. The console flares to life, stabilizers growl louder.
That’s a yes.
The launch pad opens like a throat — and we shoot into it.
The ascent is hell.
Atmospheric pressure slams us backward. The inertial compensators lag behind, giving us gut-wrenching lurches every time the stabilizers stutter. The ship screams, every plate and bolt arguing with the laws of physics.
Outside the viewfinder, Corven-7 shrinks behind us—a scarred silver mass against the backdrop of midnight, flickering with station-wide alerts.
We barely clear the stratosphere when the AI calls it.
“WARNING: DEPARTURE CORRIDOR SEALED. RE-ENTRY AUTHORIZATION DENIED.”
Vael snarls. “Override.”
“Authorization denied.”
I grab the manual nav stick. “Vael—get to weapons.”
