I let myself go.
Because the world just tilted and I’m hanging on to a man who looked like a weapon and turned out to be a lifeline.
We fly into the void and I don’t know what happens next.
But I know we survived tonight.
CHAPTER 9
RHEA
The borrowed skimmer hums beneath me like a wounded bird as we coast into neutral space—customs- and war-free zone for the moment, at least. I sit with the data crystal pressed to my chest, sweat cooling quickly in the recycled air, a hush settling over me that’s heavy and brittle. Around us, small freighters drift like lazy fish in a glass tank, cargo lights blinking, docking arms slack. I expect silence. I expect relief. Instead, my comm-pad chirps. Sharp. Insistent.
I lift it with one gloved hand, the crystal’s faint vibration against my ribs reminding me this is far from over. The screen shows URGENT: TOP PRIORITY in crimson text that feels too loud in the quiet.
“Rhea Hart. Code?301. Broadcast link override detected. Terminal QNR-7. Subject: Quinn Reyes. Status: compromised.”
My breath stops. My hand catches on the edge of the pad. The world tilts. I taste metal in my mouth.
“Quinn’s dead,” I whisper, more to the starlight outside than to him.
Valtron’s next to me, massive frame hunched over controls, golden eyes flashing in the dim light. He hears it. I can see the flicker.
“Explain,” he says quietly but I feel the growl.
I swallow. “Quinn Reyes. The anchor who replaced me at Sunrise Sector Live. He—he was found dead near the holodocks this afternoon. Authorities say mugging. But I… but he was working our story. My story. Before I left. He activated my archived feed. He tried to broadcast the corruption packet.”
Valtron’s hand tightens on the throttle. The hum of the skimmer grows louder.
“He died because of this?” he asks.
“Because ofus,” I say. “Because of the file. Because, probably, the Combine found a breadcrumb and followed it back.”
He doesn’t answer. His jaw sets. The hum dips into an ominous note.
“Rhea,” he begins, low and slow—his voice is always too controlled when he’s angry. “If you back down now—if you stop—Quinn dies for nothing.”
I stare at the crystal against my chest. The memory of Quinn’s grin when we’d interviewed him about low-level contract fraud, the idealist-fire in his eyes—not cowered. The footage of him signing off after he accessed the system. He’d said:“For the truth, Rhea.”
I breathe in. The recycled air tastes stale, like yesterday’s coffee and fear. “I want to stop,” I say. “I want to run away. I want to grieve. I want… normal.”
Valtron turns to me fully. His shoulder slab of scale presses against me. I feel the shift, his heat, calm but heavy. “Normal’s dead,” he says. “It died when the first body dropped. Quinn’s blood is on this. This file—your anchor-life—on this. You walk away now, and you’re leaving him and every other unknown casualty behind.”
I look at him. The brilliant gold of his eyes is lost in shadow—dangerous and tired. I feel something in my chest crack. The weight of this mission, the truth of what we uncovered, and the cost.
“Do you ever worry?” I ask. “Not about us. About you. About me. About what happens when this ends?”
Valtron’s lips twitch. “Yeah. All the time.”
I blink. The admission is velvet-soft, so unexpected I stumble.
He continues: “I worry I’ll lose you. Or I’ll lose me. Or we’ll win and there’ll be nothing left worth keeping.”
I exhale, a sad, slow sigh. The skimmer tilts slightly on a star-swept drift. Lights outside flicker. I rest my hand on the crystal. Warm. Quiet. Precise. Still ticking.
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
“Good,” he says. “Be scared.”
