Chapter 26 #2
Her mind linked to the massive nanite network threaded throughout the ship, and the world sharpened as her consciousness split between the physical and digital realms.
Her subroutines flared with a cold, focused purpose, their reach extending to every data stream in the flotilla and beyond.
First, she followed a promising cyber trail emanating from a relay deep in the North of the Wildlight.
Her cogitation tore through thousands of data tendrils in moments, isolating and confirming the comms traffic she intercepted.
One particular thread again demanded attention: a scrambled data burst from a backdoor satellite node nested in an abandoned comm tower.
Her internal systems decrypted it in under eight seconds.
Her lips parted, and a curse escaped.
There it was: proof of coordination between the Red Skulls and the Falasian insurgents in Pegasi, and their plot to destabilize the flotilla. To strike at the Sable Riders.
The Falasians had indeed supplied the Skulls with their sophisticated weaponry and bombs through deals with Vern Gage.
Miral followed the comms trail with the lethal precision of a hunter. Layer by layer, she shredded firewalls, some primitive, others sophisticated.
The signal led her to a submerged subnet cluster: the Red Skulls’ coded databases housed aboard the Crimson Shrike, their home station.
The server was cloaked beneath a series of false ports and garbage data designed to mimic debris pings.
Miral’s fingers held still, yet inside her frame, her consciousness spun through lines of command like wind slicing through glass.
Then came contact. She breached the mainframe.
Data poured in: messages, deny lists, encrypted orders, supply manifests, and payment receipts buried in code.
Pirate broadcasts laced with their insignia, and woven among them, records of ‘Asset RQ’ being moved, redirected, isolated, The Red Queen.
Miral’s pupils dilated as her Synth-frame archived, sorted, and cataloged.
In minutes, she retrieved terabytes of intelligence, all centering on Soleil and the machinations of the men she once called father and uncle.
The Red Skull’s secrets were revealed to her, and she made note of them all.
Next, she replayed the detonation footage of the Vermilion Claw in slowed micro-frames, her aetheric circuits filtering for energy irregularities and digital ghosts.
Then, in the chaos of debris, flame, and concussive rupture, there it was: a flicker, scarcely a shadow, but unmistakably authentic.
A small, silent scout ship slipping free of the Claw’s flank seconds before the primary blast.
Cloaked in a stealth shield, this was likely a one-person racing skimmer.
The explosion had masked its heat trail, but it was no match for Miral.
Her pupils flared violet as she activated TRACE-9, her embedded signal triangulation program.
Thread by thread, she unraveled the each particle displacement, all its plasma wakes, every stealth move in the surrounding void.
The signature headed toward a single destination.
Miral’s processors spiked. ‘65 Cybele,’ she whispered.
The station, while a key port in the Wildlight, was a rat’s nest of orbiting filth and forgotten diplomacy, built on asteroid fragments and mercenary ego.
It was a liminal terminus, where pirates, exiles, and DarkNet deal makers went to play, where lawlessness reigned.
A place of no eyes. A perfect retreat to vanish, or to hide what you couldn’t destroy.
She leaned back in her chair, her eyes gleaming with conviction.
Soleil might still be alive.
Miral approached the CO’s office at a clipped, urgent pace, energized by her findings.
The reinforced door slid open halfway, then further, sensing her approach.
She stepped through and froze.
‘Oh. Shit. I’m so sorry.’
Holo-maps and shifting stellar charts hovered near one wall.
Light from a planetary ring in the void beyond the window glowed across the room in shades of violet and blue, painting their silhouettes like a dreamscape.
Xander had Savvine pressed against the view-port’s edge, his hands tangled in her dark hair, their bodies flush and their hips swirling in a rhythm of shared heat.
Their mouths were fused in a kiss that might have sparked a reactor.
They broke apart at the sound of her voice.
Xander cursed under his breath as he tore his mouth from his woman’s.
Savvine buried her face in his chest, her lips curved with amusement, her shoulders shaking.
Miral’s eyes shot to the floor. ‘Perhaps I should return another time.’
‘Nada,’ Xander growled, the remnants of heat still rough in his timbre. ‘You’re here now. Speak.’
Savvine broke free of her husband’s hold, smoothing her jacket. ‘What’s on your mind, Miral?’
Miral straightened and eyed them both. ‘It’s about Santi and Soleil.’
Xander moved to the viewport, arms folded, his spectral energy flashing beneath the surface of his honey-gold skin. ‘Speak.’
Savvine sat on the edge of the desk, her expression tightened, her eyes locked on Miral.
Miral stepped forward and activated her embedded device, casting shimmering data streams into the air: comms transcripts, footage fragments, intercepted orders, and a single burning red locator beacon.
‘I have news,’ Miral stated, her voice steeped with satisfaction. ‘I might have found her.’