Chapter 20 Orion
orion
A Ghost in the Smoke
By the time we clear the alley outside the café and wind through widening streets, a late storm is brewing over the Tumplesh sector.
Rain beats down in a drippy staccato on the crystalline awnings overhead, rolling warm mist into the busy street where Vega and I move at a clipped pace.
The station's artificial atmosphere turns even drizzle into a curtain of damp that soaks through our clothes in minutes.
We cut through a row of neon-lit stalls and food carts still sputtering over heat coils, the streets thick with the scent of fried bantil and scorched synth-meat.
My boots splash through puddles as we keep to the edges of the corridor, dodging patrolling security drones and doing our best to stay invisible.
Vega checks over his shoulder every third step.
“They’re close,” he mutters. “We need to move faster. No idea if they clocked the café, but they were sniffing near the terminal. We’ve got maybe five minutes, tops.”
“Then maybe less narration, more sprinting,” I snap. My mating instinct is surging with the idea of Lyra working with the annoyingly dashing Martian.
He snorts. “I’m going slow so you can keep up, Ranger.”
I glare but keep quiet, certain that if the Fed wasn’t in the process of saving my ass and probably Lyra’s, I’d punch him in the throat. The vision soothes me and pacifies a little of my mating-induced envy.
A few streets down, Vega motions to another nondescript alleyway, and we duck in, melting into the darkness.
When he’s sure we’re not being followed, he pops open a nearby service hatch and we slip inside, emerging into the lower cargo bay several decks below.
The hum of distant turbines and the occasional shout of dockhands bouncing off concrete bulkheads echoes through the bay, making it almost impossible for me to hear Vega’s muttered instructions.
Just beyond the loading gates, a matte-black hoverbike leans against a crate—one side scorched, the back end rigged with what Vega explains is a dummy crash panel.
A few meters away, a squat gray unmarked cruiser waits with its running lights dimmed.
Vega’s already tapping at a wristpad, syncing systems.
“I’m going to cue the dummy route,” he says. “You’re going to give them the show. We crash it big. In the chaos, we jump into the cruiser and ghost. I hope you know how to ride a hoverbike.”
Frustration makes my temper snap. “What if I didn’t?”
He tosses me a helmet, grinning. “Well then, this wouldn’t look very convincing now, would it?”
I narrow my eyes. “You don’t seem nearly panicked enough for someone improvising under fire.”
Vega’s mouth twitches. “That’s because I’m not. This wasn’t meant for you. This was Lyra’s out—contingency escape route if things went sideways after we swapped the idol.”
He points to the cruiser. “Scrambler’s built in. Registry loops every thirty seconds. Bike’s wired to detonate off a trigger relay and crash with just enough synthetic residue to fool basic forensics and the dumbass Void Stalkers tailing you.”
I blink. “You planned to fake Lyra’s death?”
“No,” he says, adjusting something on his wristpad. “I planned to make it possible—if she needed to disappear.”
There’s something harder in his voice now. A pause. Then he shakes it off. “Now it’s yours. Try not to waste it.”
Before I can come up with something biting, the hair on the back of my neck stands up, and my synesfores flicker a panicky yellow.
Void Stalkers step out of the darkness at the dock’s entrance—there are six of them, their sleek black armor glinting in the warm, wet air.
The moment they catch sight of us, they fan out, running in our direction in an attempt to cut us off.
“Go!” Vega hisses.
I jump on the bike, slam down on the throttle, and rocket into the lane. Behind me, Vega vaults onto the cruiser’s open ramp and hits the ignition. It hums to life but stays grounded for now, lights dark.
Plasma fire cracks through the alley as the Void Stalkers track me.
"Target on the bike! It’s the Xylothian!”
I duck low and follow the narrow guidance overlay Vega directed to my HUD. It’s hastily mapped, but the directions make sense. Left at the coolant tower. Boost under the scaffolding. Bail point just before the station vent.
I gun it, swerving past pallets of trade goods and diving under a bridge. I count down under my breath, flick the autopilot control, and hurl myself sideways.
I tumble hard onto the soaked concrete, gasping as the impact knocks the wind from my lungs.
Pain blooms along my side where I hit the ground, but my adrenaline surges enough to get me back on my feet.
The bike, now under Vega’s pre-set script, races forward like there’s a pack of rabid lupitians on its tail.
It shoots forward, arcing into a tight spiral before smashing into the side of a cargo freighter.
The explosion rocks the bay with a fireball that swallows the alley in smoke and flame.
Hopefully, the firebots will extinguish everything before the fake idol melts in the crash debris.
The heat washes over me even from cover, and there’s a discordant soundtrack of soft rain spattering in puddles at my feet, combined with screeching metal and wailing sirens.
The detonation's flash blinds half the bay—exactly what Vega planned.
Screams erupt in the wake of the destruction and a few of the Void Stalkers close in on the scene of the crash.
“We got him! The Xylothian is down!” one yells.
In the chaos, Vega swings the cruiser around. I sprint through the haze and dive into the open hatch.
“Go!” I yell.
The ramp seals behind me as the cruiser lifts off.
We bank low and vanish into the lower lanes, weaving into traffic as innocuous as possible, given that we just blew up an entire section of the Epsilon-6’s docks.
Unbidden, my memories return to Lyra—to the gleeful way she mentioned blowing up the casino on Mallorus.
A small smile tugs at my lips as I watch the fireball being extinguished by a mobile unit of firebots.
Minutes later, inside the cruiser’s cockpit, Vega’s hands fly over the controls.
“Idol’s secure, feeds are spoofed, and the fake crash is already hitting the station’s news circuit. Congratulations, Orion Asterth. You just died horribly.”
I pull off the helmet and toss it onto the dash. “Great. Although next time you get to play the flaming corpse.”
Vega lets out a low chuckle, flashing a grin punctuated by fangs. “Tempting. But you sell it better. Angsty martyr’s written all over you. I can tell why Lyra’s pulled you into her orbit.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He flicks a glance at me, all casual mischief with something unreadable behind it. “Man, you’ve got it bad. Can’t say I’m surprised. She’s something else—one in a million.”
“I didn’t realize you knew her that well,” I reply, barely recognizing the growl in my voice. My petty jealousy is making my synesfores flicker black and red in an irritated rhythm.
“I don’t—not really. But you know, she’s definitely the type to leave an impression,” he laughs. “You and Lyra must’ve made a hell of a pair.”
I glance at him, jaw tight. “It’s none of your business.”
“Touchy.”
We’re slicing through the mid-lane traffic of a new sector, Vega piloting smoothly like he was born in the cockpit.
Low amber light glows from the control panels, bouncing off the cruiser’s worn chrome interior, making it look warmer than it is.
Outside, the city falls away in sharp tiers of neon and carbon steel, endless as the ache in my chest.
“She’s not mine,” I add, quieter. “Not really.”
“Didn’t say she was,” he says, voice infuriatingly calm. “But I see the way you look when I say her name. Like you’re bracing for a solar flare.”
He’s not wrong.
There’s a silence between us, brittle like rusted metal. I shift in the copilot’s seat, shoulders tight under the damp cling of my shirt, still sticky from the sprint and the fake crash. The adrenaline’s gone, but the weight in my chest hasn’t lifted.
“I spotted her on Epsilon-6,” Vega says, eyes still on the lanes of weaving traffic ahead. “She was ducking cameras, not well, I might add, and I recognized her from my case files. Slippery, too clean for the jobs she was attached to. So, I started watching.”
“Creepy.”
“Observant,” he corrects, a little defensively. “Most people don’t notice patterns in a station this size. I do.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. The image of Lyra—alone, hiding, feral and brilliant—makes something twist painfully under my ribs.
“She kept showing up at this ridiculous amusement park of a café, right? Laced bodices, fake fireplaces, longing gazes, and steamy declarations shared over tea trays. I figured it was bait—no way could someone like that be so taken in by something so cheesy. And for someone trying to keep a low profile, returning to the same place, same time, every cycle? Pfft. But there she was, reading about pirates on the high seas and sipping moonshine-spiked tea like she didn’t have a bounty the size of a defense satellite on her head. ”
“So what, you pulled up a chair and played brooding?” If this conversation doesn’t end soon, I’m going to break something. Even odds on it being Agent Vega’s face, or his ship’s console.
He smirks. “Skintight breeches and everything. Got laughed at by the hostess. But Lyra gave me a seat—and some thinly-veiled insults. Two hours later, we were debating whether the pirate captain’s declaration in the second act counted as emotional manipulation.”
Something about that image makes my molars grind. “Did you seduce her?”
Vega actually laughs. “Please. She could've broken me in half and flossed her teeth with my spine. I wasn’t dumb enough to try. I leveled with her a few hours in—told her I was Fed, had a fat file with her name on it, and made her an offer she couldn't refuse.”
“Which was?”