"See?" I tell Horgox. "She cares."
His mouth does something complicated. He's been doing that since the wreckage, this micro-expression that might be amusement if he'd let it develop fully. He won't. Whatever cracked open in those seconds on the ground has been sealed back up, and the male keeping watch at the perimeter is the same controlled, guarded fugitive who told methat's all you need for nowin the root cave.
Which is fine. That's the smart play. We're strangers in a survival situation, and strangers don't need to be anything more.
My hands work the last connection while my brain runs a parallel argument it's not going to win.
"Bebo, environmental scan. Drone patrol patterns, local fauna activity, anything relevant within a three-kilometre radius."
"Processing. Sensors degraded but functional at reduced capacity." A pause. "Three drone units operating in a standard ninety-minute sweep cycle. Search radius has expanded significantly from last night, consistent with a no-survivors assumption. Current nearest unit is two point four kilometres southwest and moving away."
"Which gives us time," Horgox says from the perimeter, not turning. "If they've concluded the crash was fatal—"
"They'll keep widening the net instead of concentrating coverage." The sentence finishes itself before I can stop it. His tactics and mine slotting together like components in a circuit I didn't design. "Buying us a window to reach the canyon."
Silence from Horgox. Then: "Yes."
"Your problem-solving synchronisation is statistically notable," Bebo observes. "Krilly typically requires fourteen separate conversations to establish tactical alignment with a new partner."
Heat crawls up my neck. "That's not—we're both good at reading situations."
"His sentence structures are completing yours. Eighty-three percent compatibility in strategic assessment patterns." Bebo pauses. "I am programmed to note relevant data."
"Note it more quietly." I'm suddenly very focused on a cable connection that doesn't need adjusting. From the perimeter, Horgox says nothing, which somehow makes it worse.
"Bebo. The cargo hold." The subject change is graceless but necessary. "The six crates in the hold. What's their status?"
"Scanning wreckage." A longer pause this time, Bebo's degraded processors working harder. "Cargo hold structuralintegrity severely compromised. All six crates sustained catastrophic damage during crash sequence."
"And the contents?"
"Empty. No biological signatures detected."
My hands go still on the cable. "Empty. The crates that were humming at body temperature, that had somethingalivethrowing itself against the walls. Empty."
"Confirmed. Pre-crash scans recorded active thermal regulation and movement within sealed containers. Current scans detect no organic material. The crates are empty." Another pause. "Reviewing pre-crash telemetry. Pressure fluctuations consistent with rapid container decompression occurred approximately two minutes before atmospheric entry. The contents exited the crates before the crash."
Six containers. Six somethings that were alive, large, running at body temperature. Loose in the jungle since before we even hit the canopy.
"Manifest classification?" My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
"Restricted. Based on available parameters, I estimate large fauna. Thermal profiles suggest warm-blooded species with significant body mass. Possibly sentient."
Horgox has turned from the perimeter. His expression is controlled, but his posture has shifted, weight forward, the stance of someone recalculating threat parameters in real time.
"My cargo," I tell him. "The biological specimens I was supposed to deliver to the ApexCorp facility. They escaped before the crash. Six of them. Large, warm-blooded. Possibly sentient." The words taste like something worse than acidic rain. "Whatever ApexCorp was transporting in those crates, it's somewhere in this jungle."
"ApexCorp doesn't ship harmless specimens in sealed, temperature-regulated crates." His jaw is tight. "What does the manifest say about their destination?"
"Facility Theta. The same facility you escaped from."
The silence that follows has weight. His eyes hold mine, and for the first time I see something shift behind the tactical mask, something raw and angry that he controls before it can reach his face. He knows what that facility does. He knows what happens to biological specimens that get delivered there.
"We were both carrying cargo for the same people," I say quietly. "You just happened to survive yours."
He doesn't respond. But his hands curl into fists at his sides, and the jade markings on his forearms pulse darker. Not the warm shifts I've seen before. Something colder, closer to the colour of deep water.
"This doesn't change our immediate plan," he says after a moment. Voice flat, tactical. "The canyon is defensible. We reach it, establish position, assess threats including the unknowns from your cargo. Your AI calculates the beacon repair timeline, and we work toward extraction."
