Chapter 8 #2
"The blockade," I confirm. "Apex won't sell us the parts. Won't let neutral parties sell to us either. Economic sanctions, they call it. Collective punishment for refusing to surrender our mining operations and submit to Council oversight."
Ksara moves to the nearest bed. A girl, maybe seven, breathing in rattling gasps that sound like grinding metal. Her name is Kora. I know because I've visited this ward more times than I can count, memorizing faces and names because they deserve that much at least.
Ksara reaches out, hesitates, then gently touches Kora's wrist. The girl doesn't wake, too deep in oxygen-deprived sleep.
"This is murder," Ksara whispers. "This is slow-motion murder and my mother signed off on it with a smile."
"Yes," I say, because there's no kinder truth available.
She spins toward me, and the grief in her expression transforms into something harder. Determined. The switch from hostage to healer happens so fast I nearly miss it.
"I need water samples," she says, addressing me like I'm a subordinate receiving orders. "Not recycled. Raw source, whatever you're pulling from. And UV lamps, full-spectrum if you have them. Growth medium, soil-based not hydroponic. Mineral analysis of your current agricultural output."
Nyx's eyebrows rise so high they nearly disappear into her hairline, her clinical mask of composure cracking just enough to reveal genuine surprise beneath. She glances from Ksara to me, a question forming on her lips that she's too professional to voice in front of a patient.
I don't give her time to ask. My hand moves to the comm unit at my collar, the small device warm against my fingers as I activate the encrypted channel reserved for my inner circle. The connection clicks open with a soft chirp that sounds obscenely loud in the quiet ward.
"Thanatos," I say, keeping my voice level and controlled despite the urgency thrumming through my veins. "Infirmary. Now."
My lieutenant arrives in under two minutes, a massive frame filling the doorway, tactical armor painted matte black with red kill-markers along the pauldrons. He takes one look at Ksara issuing demands to Nyx and his scarred mouth quirks.
"The flower giving orders, boss?" His voice rumbles like distant explosions.
"The asset requires materials," I say. "Water samples from the primary reservoir. UV lamps from hydroponics, full-spectrum. Soil analysis from all active agricultural zones. She wants it, she gets it."
Thanatos doesn't question. Just nods and starts making calls, his sub-vocal comm cycling through department heads with efficient brutality.
Ksara is already kneeling beside Kora's bed, eyes closed, one hand pressed flat against the concrete floor. Her breathing slows, deepens, matching some rhythm I can't perceive.
The air changes. Not temperature, exactly. More like pressure, or potential. The sense of something gathering.
A hairline crack appears on the floor beneath her palm. Green shoots through it, tender and impossible, growing in concrete and recycled air and artificial light.
Nyx inhales sharply. Several patients who were sleeping sit up, drawn by something instinctive.
The plant keeps growing. Unfurling leaves that glow faintly blue-green, releasing oxygen I can actually taste, crisp and clean and so fundamentally different from the recycled staleness we breathe that it almost hurts.
Kora's breathing eases. Just slightly, just enough to notice. The rasp smooths out, becoming something closer to normal. Her chest rises and falls with less effort, the rattling wheeze fading into quieter respiration.
Ksara's nose bleeds. A thin crimson line tracking from her nostril to her upper lip, stark and vivid against her pale skin. She doesn't seem to notice, or doesn't care, her focus entirely locked on the plant growing beneath her palm and the child lying motionless on the cot.
"Stop," I say, moving toward her, my boots crunching on fallen dust and debris. "You're hurting yourself."
"It's working," she argues, but her voice shakes with strain, threads of exhaustion woven through the defiance. Her hand trembles where it presses against the floor, knuckles white with pressure. "She's breathing better. Can't you hear it? I just need a few more minutes—"
"It's not enough." I pull her up, hands gripping her shoulders, forcing her to meet my eyes. "You can't heal them one at a time. We need systemic change. Infrastructure. The agricultural sectors, not individual miracles."
She sways on her feet, equilibrium faltering as the exertion catches up with her body.
I reach out instinctively to steady her, hands still gripping her shoulders, and even through the layers of armor plating I can feel her warmth radiating outward, burning fierce and vital like a small sun contained in fragile human skin.
"Then take me there," she demands, lifting her chin in that stubborn way of hers, defiance blazing in eyes still red-rimmed from tears and exhaustion.
Her voice wavers but doesn't break. "Show me what needs fixing and let me fix it.
The agricultural sectors, the life support systems, whatever it takes. Just show me."
The explosion hits before I can formulate an answer, before I can tell her all the reasons why that's impossible.
The station shudders. Overhead lights flicker and die, replaced by emergency reds that paint everything in bloody monochrome. Somewhere in the distance, alarms scream.
Debris falls from the ceiling. Chunks of concrete and twisted rebar, crashing down in the corridor just beyond the infirmary entrance.
I throw Ksara against the wall, cage her there with my body while the world tries to shake itself apart. Feel her heartbeat hammering against my chest plate, rabbit-fast and terrified.
The shaking stops as abruptly as it began, leaving behind an eerie, ringing silence.
Dust settles through the air in thick, choking clouds that clog my respiratory filters and turn the emergency lighting into diffuse crimson halos.
I can taste the bitter tang of pulverized concrete on my tongue even through my helmet's environmental seals.
My comm unit explodes with overlapping chatter, voices layered on top of each other in controlled panic.
Damage reports flooding in from every sector.
Casualty counts climbing by the second. Breach warnings lighting up my tactical display like angry constellations, hull integrity compromised in sectors seven through twelve, life support failing in the eastern agricultural dome, structural collapse imminent in residential block four.
The data streams across my vision in rapid succession, each alert more dire than the last, painting a picture of catastrophic systems failure spreading through my station like poison through veins.
"Lord Haid." It's Nyx, voice cutting through the chaos. "We need to evacuate the children. This section won't hold if there's a secondary collapse."
I pull back from Ksara, already calculating. Escape routes. Structural integrity. Threat assessment.
Her eyes are wide, luminous in the emergency lighting. But she's not panicking. She's thinking.
"What happened?" she asks.
"We're about to find out."