“Mother—”
Footsteps pound. A squad of fighters breach the hold bulkhead. Four men in dark armor, blue visors, rifles raised.
“They know,” one says. “Storm team Alpha to deck six.”
I don’t give orders. I’m just the anchor. I lift the case and dash toward the ladder.
Valtron’s voice in my ear: “Get to the node. I’ll hold them.”
I don’t answer. Panic burns my veins red, and adrenaline is the only steady heartbeat I feel. I run.
Blaster bolts streak across the hold—snapping electric blue, sizzling like daylight in a night sky. I zigzag between crates, one exploding where a round hits, foam and metal shrapnel showering me. The smell of burnt resin hits my nose. I choke.
“Rhea!” Valtron bellows. “Move!”
I scramble up the ladder two rungs at a time. The metal bites at my gloves. My chest heaves. I hear glass shatter behind me. The wall where the fighters approaches cracks and glows red-hot.
I burst into the corridor. White light. Heat. The world distorts with alert flares. I run. I can see him in the doorway—a massive silhouette buffered by golden eyes. One of the fighters shoots. Valtron steps into the bolt. It cooks through his armor like acid and he doesn’t flinch. He grabs the shooter’s wrist and twists. A snap. The man screams.
I don’t stop. I run. My shoes skid on the liner. The walls seem too close, the air too hot. The corridor smells like burnt circuitry, sweat, gunpowder.
The node is at the end. The door slides open before I even reach it. A guard shakes his head and waves me in. I shove the suitcase inside and slam the door shut as I trigger the access panel.
Blue lights. Whir. The crystal fits in the slot. It clicks. A hum. The screen floods with confirmation. Channel open.
Thirty seconds later, I hear the ship—our ship—ripe with explosions. The fighters have broken through the vacuum seal. The corridor behind me shudders.
I swing the case off and lift the crystal from its foam. I hold it like a newborn.
“Valtron,” I whisper.
“I’m coming,” he says. His voice distant.
The door bursts again, frantic. A blast hits the node door. I brace myself. The case falls. The crystal rolls. I drop to my knees. My fingertips close around it.
“Rhea! Get out!” Valtron screams.
I turn. The corridor behind me is fire and steel. I don’t hesitate.
I sprint back the way I came—past the crates, past the hole in the wall, past the shattered hold. The vibration underfoot intensifies. The ship tilts. Gravity shifts. The hull tears open. Snow pours in like static.
I reach the ladder. I climb two rungs without looking back. I dive off into open air of the cargo bay as the section behind me explodes. Glass, metal, screams. I land hard. I roll.
The suitcase breaks open. The crystal bounces across the floor and I catch it on instinct. My body burns. My elbow screams. My breath is the air someone used up hours ago.
I sprint to the boarding ramp. Outside, void-lights. Star-field. The theft craft we stole—small skimmer, hotwired, engine already screaming. I jump in. Strap myself in. I look back.
Valtron emerges from the wreckage. His armor scorched, one leg limping. Behind him the cruiser’s hull folds in on itself and ignites. He waves. He climbs into the skimmer. Engine starts.
We’re out.
The skimmer lurches into the void, leaving the cruiser behind—a doomed carcass.
I don’t cry. Not yet.
But once we’re clear, still under the radius of destruction, I pull the crystal to my chest and my body finally gives in. The tears come uncontrolled. Hot. Bitter. Relief and grief mingled. I don’t care if he sees.
Valtron says nothing. He wraps his massive arms around me. His lips rest on my head. The smell of scorched metal and his blood—faint but there—is all around.
