Sabine
Port Gralic looked like someone had welded three different space stations together and forgotten to check if they were compatible.
Sections spun at different rates. Architecture clashed.
Mondian brutal efficiency smashed against Lyrikan curves, with Merrith tunnel systems threading through it all like veins.
The docking was a disaster. I scraped the hull against the guide rails, overcorrected and nearly slammed into a merchant vessel. Finally got her into the assigned berth through sheer luck.
Varrick hadn't moved during any of it.
The dock officer demanded fifteen hundred credits total. I found Varrick's credit chip in his jacket. During one of his conscious moments in hyperspace, he'd given me the override code. “In case,” he'd mumbled.
In case he died.
Getting him off the ship took everything I had. Seven feet of unconscious Vinduthi versus one exhausted human woman. I finally found a hover-stretcher in medical supplies and managed to get him moving.
Level Seven was exactly what you'd expect from a station's underbelly.
Flickering lights. Suspicious stains. The smell of ozone and rot.
The quarters I found were shit. One room, one bed, a bathroom that hadn't been cleaned this century.
But the door locked and the Merrith landlord didn't ask questions.
“Nexian toxin,” he said, looking at Varrick's gray skin and the black veins spreading across his chest. “Three days to metabolize if he's strong. After that, he'll either be dead or recovering.”
“He's strong.”
I got Varrick onto the bed. He groaned. First sound in hours. His eyes flickered open.
“Sabine?”
“I'm here.” His hand was cold. Vinduthi ran hot, but the toxin was destroying his system.
“The ship...”
“Locked. The Regalia's safe.”
“If I don't...”
“Shut up. You're not dying.”
His thumb traced a circle on my wrist. “Fierce little dealer.”
“Your fierce little dealer.”
Heat flared in his eyes. Then his body seized. Every muscle locked rigid, back arching. I threw myself across his chest to keep him from hurting himself. His fangs extended fully. Then it passed, leaving him gasping.
The fever hit within the hour. His skin burned so hot I could barely touch him. Sweat soaked the sheets. He thrashed, muttering broken words.
“No... don't... please... I'll work harder...”
Old trauma bleeding through. The voice of someone much younger, terrified.
“You're safe,” I told him, using my dealer's voice. Calm, steady. “You're with me.”
His red eyes opened but didn't focus. “The algorithms... dying... three years... calculations wrong...”
More fragments: “Broken... already broken... worthless... Qeth said...”
Then names like a prayer: “Rylos... Zarek... Talon... Brevan... Kallum...”
The wound wept clear fluid that smelled wrong. Metallic and bitter. Black veins spread down his arm, across his chest. When I tried to cool him with a wet cloth, his skin actually steamed.
A Merrith vendor two levels up sold me basic supplies and added a bottle of something blue. “For the pain. When it gets bad. Three drops only.”
When he started screaming, actually screaming, I forced the three drops down. His breathing eased.
“Sabine?”
“I'm here. Eighteen hours down. Fifty-four to go.”
He tried to laugh. “Always counting.”
“Tell me something,” I said. “About your brothers. Your ship. Anything.”
So he talked. About the Sovereign who'd found him. The brothers who'd become his family. The empire they were going to reclaim. When I asked about his life before the Sovereign, his jaw tightened.
“Nothing worth remembering.”
The worst came in waves. He fought invisible enemies, fangs extended, calling out warnings to people who weren't there. “Failed them... weak... worthless...”
“You're not worthless. You came back for what was yours.”
“Came back for you.”
Even in delirium, the words carried weight.
Two days later, the black veins were fading. When he opened his eyes, they were focused. Present.
“You stayed.”
“Where else would I go?”
“Anywhere. You're free now. The station's gone.”
“Someone needs to teach me to fly that ship properly.” I was exhausted. Two days of protein bars and no sleep. “Besides, I made a choice.”
“You need real food.”
“You need rest.”
“The market. Tomorrow.” His thumb traced another circle on my wrist. “Let me feed you.”
The intimacy of that offer, caring for me, made heat pool in my belly. No one had offered to take care of me in five years.
“One more day,” I said.
We both knew the toxin would be gone in twelve hours. But neither of us was ready for what came next. What returning to his ship would mean.
One more day before everything changed.