“And I’m going.”
“I know.”
His servos whine as he moves aside.
“Then I’m going with you,” he says.
I nod. “Good.”
The lift shudders as we enter, old wiring protesting our presence. I slam my fist into the console and punch in the manual override Reflector just fed me.
The panel flashes: Destination: Deck 6 – Core Access.
Then the doors slide shut.
And we descend into hell.
The lift doors grind open on a half-lit corridor, and the smell hits me first—burnt ozone and blood.
Fresh.
Too fresh.
Reflector hovers close, his servos whining in distress. “Thermal readings: four signatures ahead, one moving—slow. Wounded.”
“Show me,” I whisper.
He projects a flickering holomap onto the wall, a shaky red blotch pulsing near a side maintenance hatch. The rest are cold. Gone.
Dead.
I move before he can finish calibrating. My bare feet slap against the grated floor, each step echoing like an accusation. Somewhere beyond the hum of flickering lights, I can hear the distant pop of blaster fire—Vrek’s men, securing the station like they own it.
But this one didn’t make it far.
The wounded pirate is slumped against the wall, clutching his side where his own plasma bolt ricocheted back on him—rookie mistake. He can’t be more than twenty. His uniform’s too big for him, sleeves singed, one boot missing.
He looks up when I approach, eyes wide, sweat streaking soot down his cheeks.
“Don’t move,” I say.
He freezes, both hands lifting in the universal gesture forplease don’t shoot me.
“I’m not armed,” he wheezes.
“Neither was my son,” I snap.
He flinches like the words hit harder than a punch. “I—I didn’t touch no kid, ma’am, I swear it.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t?—”
I grab a handful of his collar and slam him back against the wall. The sound it makes is ugly. His head thuds against the steel.
Reflector hovers beside me, his voice tight. “Isolde?—”
“Stay out of it,” I hiss. My pulse is loud enough to drown reason. “You’ve got three seconds before I forget I ever believed in mercy. Where. Is. My. Son?”
