He scanned again, slower this time.
Nothing.
"Dhomhes," he said. His voice came out even. Controlled. Good.
Dhomhes looked at him. Read his expression in about half a second. "How long?"
"I don't know." That was the worst part. He didn't know when she'd gone. He'd been at the front of the ship, doing what needed doing, and she'd just?—
"I'll send two units," Dhomhes said, already back on his communicator.
He caught Stron's arm before he moved. Pressed something into his hand without looking at him, still talking into the communicator like nothing had happened.
A knife. One of his. Weighted perfectly, blade folded, the grip warm from Dhomhes's pocket.
Stron closed his fingers around it and went.
The refinery complex was a maze of corridors and equipment bays, catwalks suspended over processing vats, maintenance tunnels running beneath the main floor. Too many places to take someone. Too many shadows.
He moved fast but not at a run. Running drew attention and attention slowed him down.
He thought about what he knew. She was smart. She wouldn't go quietly unless she had no choice. Which meant wherever she was, she'd been taken by someone who gave her no choice.
His armor was fully extended before he realized it had started moving.
He checked the main corridor first. Nothing. A side bay — equipment, no people. A maintenance access point with the door ajar.
He stopped.
Looked at the door.
She would have fought. She would have grabbed anything she could reach. And if she'd grabbed something, she'd have left something behind.
On the ground just inside the entrance, half hidden in the shadow of the doorframe, was a single red curl.
He went through the door.
The maintenance level was dim, lit by strips of yellow emergency lighting along the floor. Pipes ran overhead, sweating condensation onto the stone. The air was thick with ore dust and something else underneath it — something that didn't belong in a refinery. Earthy. Smoky.
He heard her voice before he saw her.
"I don't have it," she said. Flat and certain, the way she said everything. "I'm telling you the truth."
"You've been carrying it since Kerde." A male voice. Accented. Familiar in a way Stron couldn't place. "Don't insult me."
Stron came around the corner.
She was on her feet, which was the first thing he checked.
Burk stood behind her, one arm across her chest, something pressed against her side that Stron didn't need to see clearly to identify. A blade or a weapon. Didn't matter which.
What mattered was that it was touching her.
His armor extended fully, every ridge sharp and ready, and he made himself stop moving. Rushing in got her hurt. He knew that. He stayed where he was.
"Let her go," Stron said.
Burk looked at him with the calm of someone who had done this before. Polished. Controlled. The uniform was gone but the bearing remained — this was a man used to authority, used to being obeyed.
