“Rakkh,” I whisper, unable to stop myself. “I think it’s… meant for me.”
His breathing changes—sharper, deeper. A warning sound rumbles in his throat, not quite a growl, not quite words.
“No,” he says again. “Nothing inside this thing is ‘meant’ for you.”
But even as he says it, the ship hums in agreement with my pulse, like it’s laughing at him. I lift my hand and hover my fingers just above the recess. Not touching. Not yet. The violetglow strengthens along the grooves around the opening—soft, coaxing.
Recognizing.
A weird, dizzy thought hits me so hard my eyes sting. What if this isn’t recognition of me at all? How could it be? This entire ship… it’s sized like… a human. The Zmaj and the Urr’ki—they’re bigger. What they craft is sized for their comfort. This is… my size, but it can’t be for me.
I’m the seventh… no, the eighth generation removed from those who left Earth. So many light-years away from Tajss that I can’t even begin to contemplate how far away that distant memory of a planet is. This couldn’t have been designed or waiting for me.
But it could be… someone like me. It must be recognizing bloodlines—genetics. Some kind of markers carried down through generations, like a hidden map. My throat tightens until swallowing hurts. I force myself to pull my hand away.
“I’m not doing it,” I murmur, mostly to prove I can.
Rakkh’s hand closes gently on my shoulder—heavy, grounding.
“Good,” Rakkh says quietly, but the relief in the word is unmistakable.
Outside, something scrapes again—closer this time, louder. The hull shivers with the impact. Dust sifts from the ceiling seam in a soft fall. Tomas makes a strangled, choking noise.
“Those things are still out there,” he says.
Travnyk steps toward the corridor opening—toward the hall we came through—his head lowered, listening. His hands rest near his curved blade, posture loose but ready.
“It tests the shell,” he murmurs. “It seeks a weakness.”
Rakkh’s claws flex. “It will not find one.”
The ship hums—deeper, almost like a response. Then the light changes. Not brighter—colder. The violet shifts toward something sharper, edged with blue-white. The grooves along the walls brighten in segmented patterns that look suddenly less like breathing and more like… circuitry.
Rakkh goes still, and I think I know him well enough to see it’s not that he’s afraid. It’s because his instincts are screaming. I feel it in my own skin, a pressure building behind my ribs.
The ship’s hum rises a notch—tightens—like a throat clearing, and then the sound comes. It’s not words, but a sequence of tones: three low pulses, one high, then a long, sustained note that vibrates my teeth. Tomas clamps both hands over his ears.
“What is that?” he screeches.
Travnyk’s eyes narrow. “A signal.”
Rakkh’s wings flare hard enough to brush the curved walls. “For what?”
The ship answers by doing something that makes my stomach drop out. The corridor behind us—our way out—seals shut. Not with the dramatics of a door slamming shut, but with the metal itself flowing across the opening like a muscle tightening—smoothing into an unbroken wall.
“No—no, no, no—” Tomas says, the words a choked sound that might be a sob.
Rakkh lunges toward the sealed passage, claws slashing at the surface. No sparks fly. The hull doesn’t dent. It absorbs his strike like it was made for it. It probably is.
“Open,” Rakkh snarls.
The ship hums once. Indifferent.
“Lia,” Tomas gasps, voice cracking. “Tell it to open!”
15
LIA
