Chapter 42
NOVA
Iwake to plastic biting into my wrists and darkness so dense it presses against my face like a second skin.
My breathing’s loud in the box.
The air is metallic—stale, recycled. Everything smells like cold circuitry and the oil-soaked tang of machinery. There’s a steady hum vibrating through the walls, low and pulsing, like a beast just under the floor.
I’m in something.
Inside something.
I shift, try to sit, but my knees slam into the wall. No space. My head knocks the ceiling, hard. Zip ties bite into my wrists when I move, cinched behind my back. One’s already cut into skin—I can feel the tacky warmth trickling down.
I blink until my vision adjusts to the green-tinted emergency diode blinking in front of me.
One every few seconds.
Like a pulse.
Like a countdown.
“Nova Calix,” comes Stark’s voice, all syrup and arrogance, filtering through a nearby speaker grille. “You’re part of history now. That’s something, isn’t it?”
My stomach turns.
“I told them,” he says, rambling like he’s on stage. “Told them the old laws couldn’t bind the future. But progress doesn’t wait for permission. It consumes the hesitant. And rewards the bold.”
There’s a sick little chuckle.
“I’ll be remembered,” he whispers, like the thought gets him high.
My heart slams into my ribs.
He’s launching me.
Into the wormhole.
Alive.
Hidden inside the sensor payload strapped to Kaz’s ship. The bastard rewired my body as a footnote—just another signal flare on a telemetry log.
I thrash hard.
The crate shifts.
Small sparks fly behind the panel above my head.
Loose wires.
Something hums louder.
That’s right, Stark, you didn’t gag me, you narcissistic freak. You wanted me to hear you gloat. Wanted me awake. Conscious.
I slam my shoulder into the wiring. Again. Again.
Something pops.
Red light floods the container. An alarm starts chirping, soft but distinct.
I hear it on the speaker—Stark’s voice goes clipped.
“What the hell—she’s interfacing with the array. Shut it down! Get in there!”
No one's coming.
Because we’re already on the launch rail.
I hear the clank. The groan. The whine of the magnetic couplings engaging.
Stark’s breath crackles through the comms—erratic, close to the edge.
“No,” he snarls. “No delays. Override manual. Send it.”
“Sir, we haven’t—”
“NOW.”
I scream.
“Don’t do this, you son of a bitch—Stark!”
He doesn’t answer.
I hear the ignition cycle lock in.
The floor beneath me tilts slightly. G-forces start to hum through the crate.
I push my forehead against the wall, trying to breathe, to focus, but my chest’s too tight. The walls too close. My body’s shaking, and it’s not fear this time.
It’s fury.
It’s heartbreak.
It’s the realization that I might die here, sealed inside a goddamn lie, without saying goodbye to my son—without ever telling Kaz the whole truth.
Another tremor.
The wormhole flares to life outside—I can feel it through the insulation. A ripple in space that makes the hair on my arms rise, even with the suit shielding me. Like the universe is holding its breath.
The pod seals with a hiss.
My voice bounces off the walls now.
No one can hear.
And I brace for the end.