“Alright, sweetheart,” I murmur, voice low, almost affectionate in the way you talk to someone who doesn’t know how much trouble they’re in. “What the hell did you steal?”
As if the universe hears me, the station shakes again—an internal detonation that sends a puff of darker smoke out of an upper vent. The troops inside are cleaning house. Erasing. Burning.
Her head jerks toward the sound and she runs faster.
And I’m already moving.
I slide down the far side of the ridge, keeping low, using the terrain the way I always do: not fighting the moon, just letting it hide me. I move parallel to her line rather than directly behind her, because if she looks back and sees a seven-foot Grolgath shadowing her, she’ll either panic or shoot, and I don’t know which is worse.
I cut through a narrow wash where the dust is softer and holds prints like memory. I can smell her now—sweat, adrenaline, faint soap residue that doesn’t belong on Yatori. That scent is almost shocking out here, like perfume at a funeral.
She’s closer than she should be, and that means she chose her route well.
Which means she might choose her next route well, too.
And that makes her dangerous.
I catch movement ahead—two inmates breaking from the slaughter field, stumbling into wilderness, eyes wide, bodies twitchy with the rations’ chemical madness. One of them turns his head, sniffing the air like a starving animal catching scent of meat.
He sees her.
He bolts.
The other follows, gait uneven, arms pumping too hard, mouth open in a soundless snarl I can see even if I can’t hear it.
I slow, letting them pass into my line rather than chasing them from behind, because I don’t run unless I have to. Running burns energy. Energy is currency. Currency is life.
I keep my distance, tracking all three—her, the two inmates—measuring angles, distances, outcomes.
If I intervene too early, she might think I’m another threat.
If I don’t intervene at all, she dies and whatever she’s carrying gets scavenged by lunatics who won’t even understand its value.
And if this is bait—if the “Vakutans” want her alive long enough to lead them to somebody hiding out here—then me stepping in might put a spotlight on my head.
I swallow the thought and taste dust.
“Okay,” I say softly, to myself, to the moon, to the dead men in the field behind me. “We do this the smart way.”
I adjust my path, keeping outside turret range even though the field is down, because turrets don’t always need a field to kill, and corporate automation loves nothing more than proving it still has teeth.
The station’s lights flare again behind us, then dim.
A distant thud—another drop ship or another explosion, I can’t tell.
The silence of the troops gnaws at me, more unnerving than any roar. It’s a silence with purpose, the kind you hear from professionals who don’t need theater to feel powerful.
Vakutans fight like they want songs written about them.
These men fight like they want paperwork filed.
I watch the human sprint ahead, her boots leaving sharp prints in the dust, and I decide in the same moment that the decision is already made.
Whether she’s useful or dangerous, she’s now part of my problem.
And I don’t let problems roam free in my territory.
Not anymore.
