I input the override code, the one I memorised from watching the night-shift technician three months ago, the one I absolutely should not possess, the one that could get me confined to quarters if anyone discovered I'd been collecting access sequences like contraband. My fingers tremble slightly as I press each digit into the keypad. The panel blinks green.
The door releases with a sharp mechanical hiss, pneumatic seals disengaging all at once.
Cold air rushes through the opening and slams into me like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs. It's different from the climate-controlled atmosphere of the ballroom, this air is sharp, unfiltered, carrying the faint metallic tang of the station's outer hull and the chill of the void beyond. Goosebumps race up my bare arms. I should have brought a shawl, but there hadn't been time to think, only to escape.
The Star Deck is a maintenance balcony, a narrow strip of reinforced plating that juts from the station's hull. Above, the dome is transparent here, offering an unfiltered view of the void. Stars scatter across the darkness, infinite and silent. No filters. No atmospheric processing. Just space, raw and endless.
I step out onto the balcony, my heels clicking once, twice against the reinforced plating before I stop, frozen by the sheer vastness opening before me. The door seals behind me with a soft click, a quiet sound that feels deafening in the sudden absence of everything else. The mechanical whisper of the lockengaging is final, cutting me off from the warmth and noise and suffocating expectations of the world I've just fled.
Silence.
Real silence, not the absence of noise but the presence of nothing. The kind of quiet that wraps around you and reminds you how small you are. How insignificant.
I close my eyes. Breathe.
The air still tastes recycled, but at least here it isn't choked with perfume and desperation. My heartbeat slows. The tightness in my chest eases, just a fraction.
I open my eyes and look up. The stars blur, my vision swimming. I blink hard. One tear escapes, tracking cold down my cheek. I wipe it away quickly, angrily.
Weak.
That's what Mother would say if she saw this.Weak, Ksara. You are a daughter of Demeter. Act like it.
But I don't feel strong. I feel hollow. Scraped out and displayed and so, so tired.
I rest my palms on the railing, metal icy against my skin. The station rotates slowly, the stars wheeling overhead. Somewhere out there, beyond the shipping lanes and the colony grids, there are worlds still wild. Planets where things grow without permits, without quotas. Forests that have never been surveyed. Oceans teeming with life no one has cataloged or monetized.
I will never see them.
My life is already written. Marriage to someone useful. Children to continue the bloodline. A role in Mother's sprawling empire, shaping ecosystems to feed the endless expansion.
The wordharvestechoes in my skull, bitter as ash.
I tilt my head back, staring at the void. If I screamed here, no one would hear. The vacuum would swallow the sound before it traveled a meter.
The thought is almost comforting, in its own terrible way. The idea that I could vanish into nothing, unheard, unmourned. Just another particle lost to the endless dark.
Then, cutting through the silence, a sound.
Heavy. Rhythmic. Deliberate.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
The unmistakable percussion of magnetic boots on metal plating. Each step measured, unhurried. Getting closer.
My spine goes rigid, every vertebra suddenly aware of itself. Ice floods my veins. I spin around, too fast, nearly losing my balance, my heart lurching violently into my throat. My breath catches, sharp and painful.
A figure stands between me and the door.
Between me and escape.
Massive. Easily two heads taller than me, broad enough to block the entire exit. Matte black armor, no insignia, no decoration. Just smooth, seamless plating that drinks the starlight and gives nothing back. The helmet is a featureless curve, no visor, no indication of eyes.
But I feel them. Watching.
Lights pulse along the suit's collar and gauntlets. Not the clean blue of station security. Red. Deep, ominous red, throbbing in slow rhythm.
A heartbeat.
