11. Nyra
NYRA
Six days. I measure the time in engines left unfixed and scrap left unhauled.
I drift through the lower decks, my boots making a soft, muffled thud against the bio-mat flooring.
Those first four cycles were spent mostly within the confines of the main chamber, an endless back-and-forth of questions and answers where Draevik and I continuously chiseled away at the silence.
The fifth and sixth days settle into something quieter—a cautious flow where he reads his star charts and I read his poetry, and neither of us mentions the almost-kiss or the mangled maintenance panel.
Now he finally loosens the leash. He spends his time hunched over the holographic starcharts, his massive frame silhouetted by the illumination of dying suns, while he grants me the freedom to roam the primary spinal corridors.
He likely believes his ship is too formidable for a scavenger like me to outsmart.
The Ship feels vibrantly alive today, far beyond mere function.
The iridescent walls shimmer with a soft violet light that follows my movement like a curious companion.
I run my hand along the wall. The texture is slick like polished stone but warm like a living body.
Every time I touch the wall, I feel like I unconsciously make contact with Draevik himself, but it's more than that now.
The Ship has its own moods, its own quiet opinions.
K-Seven bobs at my shoulder, its limbs twitching as it scans the atmospheric density. The little drone acts as the only link to the world of grease and bolts I was forced to leave behind, a small oblong comfort in this world of grown bone and sentient shadow.
"Draevik said stay in the spine," I murmur, mostly to hear the sound of a human voice. "But he neglected to specify which section, and the Ship doesn't seem to mind the company."
"Technically, the Commander specified the primary transit arteries," K-Seven chirps, its trio of blue lenses rotating with a soft whirr.
"This sector is classified as a secondary nerve cluster.
We are currently three hundred forty-two meters outside the permitted zone.
Should Unit prepare a list of excuses for your inevitable execution? "
"I think he's too busy brooding to execute me just yet, K. Besides, if he wanted me to stay put, he should have given me a better book." I run my hand along the wall. The ship is an extension of him. Every time I touch the wall, I feel like I unconsciously make contact with the Commander himself.
The deeper I go, the more the architecture shifts from the grand, intimidating spans of the Sanctum to something more utilitarian.
Here, the ribs of the ship are closer together, forming tight, arched tunnels that smell of ozone and damp earth.
This is the gut of the beast, where the life support systems churn and the data flows like blood.
The corridors curve and twist with a biological logic I still struggle to grasp.
I move through a section where the walls are thicker, the bioluminescence a darker shade of indigo that seems to drink the light from K-Seven’s sensor.
Keeping my hand close to K-Seven's chassis—which carries my only remaining tools since Draevik confiscated my kit—I hunt for something specific.
Draevik talks about his "dead empire" and his "forgotten war," but I need to know the numbers. I need to classify this ghost. If I can find the ship’s log—the actual, unfiltered records within Virex Prime—I might find a path back to a trade route.
I push deeper into the bowels of the ship, navigating past strange, organic humps in the floor that thumps like sleeping hearts.
The further I get from Draevik’s core territory, the more the mark on my chest protests.
It throbs with a sickening, ragged static, sending shivers of unease down my arms. I can feel an instability echoing through the connection, a barely contained storm raging somewhere above me.
Every few meters, a ventilation grate exhales a warm, moist burst scented with cinnamon and old metal.
I sit there like a flea on the back of a very large, very powerful animal.
"K-Seven, find a central processing artery," I direct firmly, keeping my volume low. "There has to be a physical interface somewhere that isn't tied directly to his primary consciousness."
"Unit detects a high-density data pocket ahead," the drone reports, its lenses narrowing.
"The encryption signatures are archaic. This is a deep-storage archival node, Nyra.
It remains separate from the active navigation grid.
Probability of detection is low, though the probability of you tripping and falling into a cooling vat remains high. "
We press on, descending a spiral ramp that feels like walking down the throat of a leviathan. I find the node behind a heavy, muscle-textured bulkhead. It looks like a crystalline growth, a cluster of shining shards protruding from the wall.
I hesitate, thinking of the strange, quiet dignity Draevik has shown me these last few days.
He gave me poetry and space. But then I remember the debt notices waiting for me back on Orun Station.
I remember the cold vacuum of space and the way he plucked me out of it.
I need leverage. I need a way to ensure that if he decides I am no longer useful, I have something to trade for my life.
I reach out, my bare fingertips brushing the sharp edge of the crystal. The moment my skin makes contact, a hot spark jumps from the stone into my hand, tracing a line of heat straight to the center of my chest. I gasp, stumbling back, but the wall is already reacting to me.
The organic layers unfurl, peeling back to reveal a shimmering lattice of light that pulses in the exact same frantic rhythm as my racing heart. Instead of recognizing a password, it’s recognizing me. Or whatever Draevik's mark has started to turn me into.
"Access it," I command.
K-Seven hovers before the exposed lattice, extending its interface probe. "Nyra, the encryption is willingly unwinding. It registers your biological proximity as a Sovereign-tier override. Unit is translating the Reaper script. This is a high-level manifest for the Veln sector campaign."
I lean in, my heart thumping a frantic urgency. Talks in the Sanctum established his rank as High Commander, yet the ship’s cold code provides the first undeniable proof.
Target Designation: Draevik Rhyx. Species: Reaper. Rank: High Commander, First Sovereign Legion. Status: Apex-Level Asset. Bounty Status: Infinite.
Stumbling back with my hand flying to my mouth, the word hits me: Infinite.
Every government, syndicate, and mercenary group in the galaxy lists him as a high-value target, backed by an ancient automated banking directive that outlives the empire it once served.
An immortal corporate trust that never stopped running the ledger.
If I could get this data out, I would be able to buy my own moon and still have enough credits left over to retire in luxury.
K-Seven scrolls through the remaining manifest in silence, the data reflecting across its chassis in cold blue light.
Campaign tallies. Kill counts. Planets subjugated, populations displaced, fleets turned to scrap.
The numbers are so large they lose meaning, rows of figures that blur together like static.
But one entry catches my eye—a tactical note in red script: Sole surviving officer of the First Sovereign Legion.
All other command-tier assets confirmed neutralized. Target remains unrecovered.
He stands alone, transcending the title of High Commander as the sole survivor of his rank.
The corridor feels smaller. The ambient tremor of the ship feels less like a purr and more like a warning.
Every scavenger, bounty hunter, and corporate retrieval squad with a functioning nav computer would burn through a star system to reach this ship if they knew what was sleeping inside it.
And I stand in its belly with a drone and a stolen calibration tool.
But the thought makes my stomach churn.
Draevik is the person who adjusted the gravity so I could pace without getting tired. He is the person who made the air warmer because I looked cold. He lives as a soldier who woke up to find his entire world turned to dust.
"Nyra, there is more." K-Seven's lenses dilate.
"The manifest includes coordinates for the final stand of the First Legion.
If Unit can copy the beacon wavelength he was using during the Veln collapse, Unit can signal a neutral salvage guild.
They will see a distress signal from a Reaper-class vessel and come running. "
The thrill of the plan surges through me. It will be a risky maneuver—calling greedy scavengers to a warship manned by a High Commander—but it is my only shot at a clean break. I have to use the noise to slip away.
"Do it, K. Copy everything," I hiss. "We have to move. If we can reach the secondary hangar, I can manual-override the exterior seals."
K-Seven’s eye turns a frantic, cycling orange. "Attempting to copy... Error. File is read-only. The data is anchored to the ship's core. Unit can view, but Unit cannot duplicate. Unit’s storage capacity is currently being insulted by this alien encryption."
"Forget the copy! Just memorize the frequency and let's go!"
I start to climb. The maintenance shaft is narrow, slick with a film of synthetic lubricant that smells like old copper.
I wedge my boots against the ribs of the ship, hauling myself upward.
My heart becomes a frantic drum in my ears.
To everyone else in the galaxy, he exists as a monster to be caged or a paycheck to be collected.
To me, he is the alien who looks at a book of human poetry with utter bewilderment.