I grin. But it’s broken. “A ghost wears uniforms. I’m just… someone you deserve.”
She asks, “Are we leaving the world now?”
I pause. The phrase resonates. Leaving the world. Not just this station, this war-scarred shell, buteverything. The job. The identity. The burden.
“Yes,” I say finally, “but we’regoingsomewhere better.”
Rynn watches quietly. I can smell the sterilized scent of her jumpsuit—mingled with exhaustion, fear, and something like hope.
I stand. My cybernetic arm whirs faintly as I flex it—the joints respond smoothly now. The scrambler collar hums. I test it by pressing my palm to the wall; the heat signature graph flickers, drops, fades.
“Good,” I whisper. “We’re invisible.”
Rynn doesn’t smile. But I find her hand. Warm. Real. She squeezes it and I lose grip on the gravity of this moment.
Supplies are sparse.The shelter has one large crate of rations, water recyclers ticking behind a panel, a half-dead solar panel patched by Drel earlier. I grab a ration bar and hand one to Nessa. The wrapper crackles so loud in the quiet it stabs at my ears.
She bites off a chunk. “Taste old,” she says.
I laugh. “Old can still be good.”
She snorts and leans into Rynn. I lean back against the wall, legs stretched out. The dim light paints the three of us in a triangle of survival. Me, notorious war hero turned fugitive; Rynn, cyberneticist & mother hiding the biggest secret of the Alliance; and Nessa, my daughter by right of blood and blind hope.
Rynn clears her throat. “We should talk route.”
I nod. “We’ll move at dawn. Drift-field shuttle will be launching—low-signature craft, midnight run. We go as passengers, low-priority deck. Bypass customs with the fake IDs Drel pulled.”
I glance at Nessa. She’s watching us, not responsive. So I continue. “Once we’re off the rig we go underground grid. Three days under the radar. Then slip into the astro-freight lanes. We reroute to the Outer Belt. There’s a station in neutral space—they’ll have a berth for us.”
Rynn’s eyes glint. “The Outer Belt… you know you’re talking about ghost-status. No logs, no records. Gone.”
I shrug. “Better than staying here with Tarek’s sharks circling.”
She exhales. “I just—she shouldn’t have to learn to hide.”
That sentence breaks me. I lean forward, rest my arms on my knees. “She doesn’t. And this…” I gesture to Nessa, to Rynn, to us… “this is her second chance too.”
I look at Nessa again. Her lips quiver. She’s trying not to cry. Trying to be brave.
“I’m scared,” Rynn whispers, and I close my eyes because I know that sound.
I rise and shelter her in my arms. “Me too,” I say quietly. “But we handle fear. We’ve done worse.”
She nods against my chest. I smell her hair—violet rinse mixed with adrenaline. I feel the weight of her body leaning into me.
I pull back. “Let’s eat, get some sleep. Tomorrow we cross the line.”
I let myself drift for a moment. The hum of the rig beneath us is constant, a reminder we’re lying on the bones of a corporation that exploited this world and left its heart hollow. I close my eyes and feel the micro-vibrations in the floor—mechanical heartbeat of abandoned tech. My dreams are empty of war zones tonight. Instead I see green grass. I see a park. I see Nessa laughing. I hold onto that.
Later, Rynn and Nessa already asleep, I remain awake. I rest in a corner of the shelter, boots off. I can feel the grime under my soles and it grounds me. I lean back, senses alert. I check the scrambler collar again—green light steady. Good.
My thoughts drift to the scar above my brow—the old wound that never fully healed. I trace it with my finger. It used to mark me as Warrior. Now… it tags me as Survivor. Father. Hiding.
Nessa stirs in her sleep. “Daddy,” she whispers, voice half dream. I recognize it even before I open my eyes. I shift, beckon her into lap. Her body folds into mine. The stuffed raptor slides to the floor.
She presses her face against my chest and mumbles, “You smell like warm metal.”
I chuckle softly, a real laugh this time. The sound surprises me.
