8. Draevik
DRAEVIK
Ihave fought campaigns that lasted decades, yet managing the pacing of a single human has proven more taxing than any siege.
I stand before the primary terminal, my fingers hovering over the glass-smooth interface with a tension I cannot dispel.
Below, in the residential tiers, the ship is misbehaving.
The deck vibrates underfoot, a shimmering of light echoing the frantic pacing of the human four decks down.
Every time her foot falls against the deck plating, the reverberation travels through the ship's nervous system and settles in the joints of my armor.
"You are overstepping." The sound echoes through the hollow of my chest.
Synchronization is at sixty-eight percent, the ship’s voice grinds through the internal speakers.
The sound clicks and grinds, tectonic and stellar all at once, a thousand dying stars echoing in its wake.
The mark’s resonance creates a blinding compulsion for proximity.
Keeping her close feels like a tactical error, yet my biology demands it.
"I did not authorize the release of the stasis field." The demand snaps like a whip, biting through the hum of the machinery. "You are granting her passage through corridors she has no right to tread. You are compromising the security of the Sector Nine block."
The vessel adapts to the pulse, the ship counters.
It bypasses logic entirely to rely on pure instinct.
A periodic violet, lambent sweep through the conduits, a physical manifestation of a loop I did not program.
Nyra is no longer a guest, nor is she a simple prisoner.
Virex Prime has begun to recognize her as a secondary heart, a vital pulse in a system that has been solitary for centuries.
Scrolling through the security logs to track her heat signature, I have to admit she has been clever.
She moves with the caution of a scavenger, keeping her profile low, touching the walls as if learning the ship’s braille.
Every point of contact lights up on my screen—a smudge of gold against the map.
She is mapping me. She hunts for the cracks in my hull, unaware that the ship itself is opening them for her.
My initial intent was to study her. Originally, I viewed her as a temporary tool, a biological key to a lock I had yet to identify.
I planned to decipher the anomaly of the mark and return her to the void once the data has been harvested.
That strategy lies in ruins now. The mark renders those calculations obsolete.
She has transitioned from a specimen into a permanent fixture of my reality.
A strange, debilitating static buzzes at the edges of my consciousness when I step away from her, accompanied by a tremor in my left hand that lasts twice as long as the one yesterday.
I fiercely dismiss it as expanding stasis-sickness.
The ship sends an encrypted warning about the mark that remains unparseable, signaling a vital missing piece of my own architectural logic.
When the tremor strikes this time, my grip on the ship's ambient systems slips—the corridor lights around me shatter, and the deck plates groan beneath my boots as unchained power bleeds from my hands.
My combat matrix threatens to crash, leaving me breathless and leaning against the bulkheads in the dark, fighting to reel the monster back in.
I need answers. I need the locked memory crystal my mind refuses to access.
Studying the schematic of the mid-decks, my eyes catch on the Obsidian Sanctum—my private quarters sitting in the most reinforced section of the vessel, deeper into the ship’s bowels than any human has ever stepped.
It radiates absolute control, far from the hangar bays and the observation ports she uses to pine for her past. The ship wants the two halves of the mark in the same atmospheric pocket.
And as I eyeball her blinking icon, I realize I want her tucked away in the core of my world, where the bulkheads are thickest and the exits are non-existent.
Placing her in the Sanctum secures the marker.
The mark’s resonance indicates that peak performance occurs at zero distance.
My predatory instinct demands she remain close, and keeping her safe becomes a tactical necessity.
"Prepare the Obsidian Sanctum," I command in a growl of finality. "Seal the peripheral vents and reroute the life support to human-optimal levels. I want the atmosphere heavy enough to remind her of her limitations."
The chamber is ready, the ship intones. I hear the distant, heavy grind of bulkheads shifting, a sound like a giant's bones cracking.
Ancient vents clear dust that has settled over eons, and the atmospheric scrubbers begin to whine as they adjust to her biological needs.
The ship is eager. It is making room for her, stretching its metallic lungs to accommodate the oxygen-heavy breath of a scavenger.
Turning away from the consoles, my armor plates click with the force of my movement.
The long walk to Sector Seven takes me through the winding ribs of the transport spine, with every stride acting as a declaration of ownership.
As I approach her door, the mark on my own chest flares—a sharp, electric tug in my sternum that demands I keep my eyes on what is mine.
The distance is no longer just a technical problem; it emerges as a physical ache.
I find myself moving faster, my boots striking the deck with enough force to trigger the ship's proximity sensors.
The door to her suite slides open before I can even reach for the sensor. The ship is impatient, practically pulling me inside, desperate to bring the two halves of the marks together.
Nyra is standing by the viewport, her small frame silhouetted against the bruised purple and toxic greens of the Veln Expanse.
She turns fast, her eyes snapping to mine with a fierce, defiant light.
She has the look of a creature that has spent the last hour sharpening its claws against the walls.
She waits like a cornered predator, ready for me to slip.
"What do you want now?" she snaps, her voice cutting through the ambiance of the room like a serrated blade. She stays at the window, standing her ground, chin tilting up as she challenges the space I occupy.
I sweep my gaze across the room. "You are moving."
Everything is in its place. The ship ensures that.
It hates disorder. The ship’s internal servitors fold the charcoal silk she wore yesterday with mathematical precision on the dais as she paces.
The locker holding her suit and that primitive drone remains sealed back in the Sector Seven suite, four decks and a labyrinth away from where I am taking her.
She will realize the distance when she arrives.
I am counting on it. There is no mess, no sign of her personality in the room, yet she lingers here anyway—ozone and something sweet, like scorched sugar.
"Moving? I just got settled into this particular hole in the wall.
" She crosses her arms tightly. "And I thought I told you, your ship and I were getting along just fine.
At least it doesn't stand there like a gargoyle and judge me for breathing.
We had a deal, didn't we? I stay in the room; you leave me alone. "
I close the distance in three long, predatory strides.
I stop only when I loom over her, a mountain of shadow and shimmering amber.
The heat from her body radiates outward, a soft, organic warmth that clashes with the cold, sterile ozone of my armor.
She is so small, so fragile, yet she radiates a defiance that makes my sensors peak.
"The ship acts on a logic you do not understand.
" The low growl causes the glass behind her to shiver.
"You have been testing the boundaries of your leash, Nyra.
I watched you touch the conduits. I watched you map the transport spine.
That ends now. I refuse to let you wander the spine like a stray, looking for doors that will never open for you. "
Without flinching, she reaches out and slams her palm squarely on my chest plate.
It’s a move she’s made before, a desperate attempt to bridge the gap between our sizes, but this time it sends a jolt of pure energy through the mark.
A searing heat stutters my internal processors, making the lights in my armor flicker for a millisecond.
"Then give me a reason to stay put, Draevik!
" Her face flushes a deep, angry red. "You drag me here, you brand me, and then you act surprised when I try to find a way out? Stop treating me like a circuit board you can just plug in whenever the lights get dim. I’m a person, even if you can’t see past the 'marker' nonsense! "
"You are a disruption." My hand moves of its own accord. I wrap my fingers around her wrist, pulling her hand away from my chest. Her skin is soft, fragile, and quivering with a frantic heartbeat. It’s a terrifyingly fast staccato, like a solar flare caught in a vacuum.
"And disruptions must be contained. You are mine, Nyra.
And what is mine stays where I can see it.
You are going deeper into the ship, where the air is thick enough to hold you. "
"I don't belong to anyone!" She struggles against my grip with a strength that surprises me.
I sense the resistance in her muscles, the wild surge of her stubbornness. Instead of forcing her toward the door, I maintain my grip and lean down until my face is inches from hers.
"You will walk to the new quarters," I rumble, a boom that rattles her teeth. "Or I will pick you up and carry you there myself. Choose your dignity or choose your rebellion, but you are leaving this room."
She glares at me for a long, silent moment, her chest heaving with exertion. Finally, she wrenches her arm back—a movement I allow—and storms toward the door.