10. Rhykor #2
My grip tightens. The man whimpers, his feet kicking weakly, the smoke from his collar thickening.
"Rhykor, put him down."
I release him, and he crumples to the floor, scrambling backward on his hands until he hits the opposite wall.
Two of my crew materialize from the perimeter posts, and I jerk my chin toward the man.
"Detain him and bring him to the freight bay for questioning.
And pull the guard rotation logs; I want to know how he got into this corridor without being flagged. "
The crew hauls the man away. I turn to find Cassia standing behind me, hugging her own frame with white-knuckled intensity, while blood coats her gloves and fury burns in her eyes.
"You terrorized a patient in front of my entire treatment line."
"He's a spy. Sector Eight militia, paid through intermediaries to surveil your location and map my guard positions. Someone with deep pockets wants to know exactly where you are and who's standing around you."
The fury flickers, turning colder. She processes the information with the same speed she applies to trauma evaluations. "And you decided the best response was to dangle him off the ground in front of twenty sick people, half of whom are already terrified to be here?"
She is right, and as the display scatters her patients, I see several already retreating down the corridor while the remaining few press against the walls with the hunted body language of civilians who know that proximity to violence means proximity to death.
Elias stands frozen at the treatment station, eyes wide.
"I'll handle the security threat," I say. "You handle the patients."
"I was handling the patients just fine before you turned my treatment line into an interrogation."
Holding my stare for three burning seconds, she turns on her heel and walks back to the station, snapping her gloves into place with a crack that echoes through the space.
Within minutes, her murmur softens into the calm, reassuring tone she uses with frightened patients, coaxing them back from the walls, and the line slowly reforms as her competence overrides their fear.
Retreating to the compound, I take the interrogation personally.
Hours later, while I’m reviewing the interrogation notes in the loading dock, the outer sentries ping a priority alert of an inbound Kraaj military transport, a single vehicle approaching from the northeast that carries the distinct markings of the Intelligence division.
My teeth grind together. We’ve had two military visits in the span of days. I position myself at the main entrance with my arms folded and my wings spread wide enough to fill the doorframe.
The transport lands in the cleared zone south of the compound. The hatch cycles open, and the woman who steps out stops the breath in my lungs, but for entirely different reasons than Cassia ever has.
Nysera Tyrann moves across the landing pad with fluid, predatory precision, dressed in silk.
She is tall, nearly six feet, an unusual height for a Kraaj female, with deep violet skin that catches the weak industrial light and turns it luminous.
Silver ceremonial markings trace intricate patterns across her cheekbones and jaw, as well as the exposed skin of her throat, each one applied with an artisan's precision rather than earned through combat.
Her horns are elegant, sleek black curves that sweep backward against her skull in a shape closer to sculpture than bone, polished to a sheen that reflects the overhead lights.
Her wings fold behind her with studied grace, the membranes darker than most Kraaj, nearly black, and lined along the edges with small metallic piercings alongside silver studs and rings that catch the light with subtle movement, decorative and intentional, transforming functional anatomy into a statement of cultivated vanity.
She wears intelligence division armor—lighter than standard military issue, fitted to her frame, with dark gunmetal plates over a bodysuit that leaves her arms bare from the elbow down, exposing more silver markings winding from wrist to shoulder.
A sidearm sits on her hip, holstered but accessible, and a datapad is tucked securely against her ribs.
Everything about her projects vigilance—from the measured pace of her stride to the sweep of those amber-gold eyes across the compound entrance, cataloging personnel and fortifications, along with threat levels, before she's taken ten steps.
Those predatory eyes find me in the doorway, and her mouth curves into a smile thick with the substance of shared history and the sharp edge of professional observation.
"Rhykor." She pronounces my name with a familiarity that predates my reputation—an older cadence, from before the title, before the territory, before the district started calling me a monster. "You look like you've been fighting underground again. The scorch marks are a giveaway."
"Nyx," I brace my posture, falling back on her old nickname, my wings filling the entrance. "Intelligence division is a long way from Central Command."
"Intelligence division goes where the chaos is.
" She stops in front of me, close enough for the subtle scent of jasmine-laced weapon oil to reach my senses, a combination I remember from years ago, from shared quarters and missions, leading to a complicated entanglement I terminated upon realizing that safety and vulnerability were concepts that escaped us both.
"And from what my briefings suggest, District Seventeen is producing chaos at an impressive rate.
Command wants eyes on the situation. Specifically, my eyes. "
"Daxos already sent his evaluation."
"Daxos sent his agenda. I'm here to determine whether reality matches his report.
" Her gaze sharpens, the professional mask settling over features I once knew intimately.
"He claims the district is destabilizing under your command.
Legion outbreaks are escalating and civilian infrastructure is collapsing, while the territorial commander is distracted by—" She pauses, selecting her next word with the cold accuracy of a scalpel. "—personal entanglements."
The muscles in my jaw jump. I force my face into a blank mask.
"I'll need access to your operational data and patrol reports, in addition to outbreak containment logs," Nysera continues, already moving past me into the compound with the easy confidence of someone who has never once waited for permission.
She pauses, offering a sharp look over her shoulder.
"Firsthand observation of your field operations is mandatory.
Expect the assessment to take several days. "
"Fine, Varrik will assign you quarters."
"Generous." She glances back over one elegant black horn, eyes glittering. "I'll try to stay out of your way, mostly."
She disappears into the compound's interior, and I stand in the doorway with my fists in balls as the political terrain shifts toward open warfare.
Varrik materializes at my shoulder. "Old friend?"
"Old complication."
"Ah," he watches Nysera’s retreating form, appraising her with a veteran’s squint, someone who has seen enough political operatives to recognize the species on sight. "The kind that bites?"
"The kind that remembers where you keep your teeth."
Varrik grunts before limping away to arrange quarters. I head inside to wait for what I know is coming.
Nysera finds me two hours later.
Her shoulders pull into a defensive arc against the cargo pylon.
Her wing stays cocked, catching the harsh overhead light along its pierced edge to turn a quiet shift in posture into a sharp, intimidating display.
Days of observing compound operations have left her a constant presence in these corridors.
Reviewing patrol logs, she fires off questions with polished precision, never missing a beat.
"The human medic," she begins, and the tension in the area pulls taut as a tripwire before she finishes the sentence. "Cassia Ward, what an interesting choice."
"She's a medical asset operating under my protection."
"She's a human woman you've relocated into your personal compound and surrounded with armed guards.
Your crew talks, Rhykor. I've been here two hours, and I already know about the spy you pinned to a wall this afternoon.
" Nysera's eyes hold mine, entirely unflinching—one of a very small number of people alive who can manage that.
"I've seen your operational data, Rhykor.
Patrol route deviations correlating to her location.
Resource allocations skewed toward her security.
Combat incident reports where civilian protection is listed as the primary objective, and they all involve her.
" She tilts her head, her horns catching the light.
"If I can see this pattern in two hours, how long do you think it took Daxos? "
The generators buzz under the floor plates. I offer nothing.
"This attachment will destroy your career.
" She states it without cruelty, reading a predetermined report aloud.
"Kraaj command is looking for an excuse to strip your territorial authority and reassign the district.
Daxos is building that excuse one surveillance report at a time, and you are handing him ammunition with both hands.
" Pushing off the pylon, she steps closer, lowering her pitch.
"I knew you when you were untouchable, Rhykor.
When your name made entire command rooms go quiet.
Whatever this woman is to you—and I have my theories—she is also the lever your enemies will use to break you. Do you understand that?"
"I understand it."
"And?"
"And it changes nothing."
Nysera holds my stare, her violet features unreadable against the silver markings. Then the professional mask slips, barely enough for me to see the woman underneath the operator, and genuine concern passes through her face.