Chapter 10 #2
"This is treason," George said quietly. But he was already loading medical supplies into a case. "If we're caught—"
"We won't be," Binwee cut in. "I know this ship. I know how to move through it undetected."
"How long will we have?" I asked. I knew shit about brain trauma. Some cops could walk out of a shoot-out, have a beer, and go on with life. Others suffered with PTSD for years.
"Maybe thirty days before I have to tell the Prime where you are," Binwee said. "I won't lie to her forever. But it'll buy you time."
George pulled out a small injector filled with clear liquid. His expression was grave as he handed it to me. "If you can't reach him—if he's still trapped, still dangerous—this will grant him peace. Painless. He'll simply go to sleep."
I took the injector with trembling hands. "I won't need this."
"Take it anyway," George said gently. "Just in case."
I slipped it into my pocket, trying not to think about what it represented.
"I'll update his translator," George said. "Make sure English is added to his language database. And I'll gather the rest of the medical supplies you might need."
"I'll prep the ship," Binwee said. "We move in two hours. The family will be preparing for the ceremony—security will be focused elsewhere."
"Two hours," I repeated, looking down at Enslak's peaceful face.
Two hours to save his life.
Two hours to prove I was right.
The next few hours passed in a blur of preparation and mounting terror.
George worked on Enslak's translator and gathered medical supplies. Binwee disappeared to arrange the ship and supplies, moving through the Bardaga's corridors like a ghost—or maybe a general. I couldn't decide which.
And I sat beside Enslak, holding his hand, trying not to think about everything that could go wrong.
We were stealing the son of the Alliance Prime. Defying the Prime herself. Betting everything on my belief that Enslak could heal, that I could reach him, that the connection between us—whatever it was—was real and strong enough to break through a century of trauma.
If I was wrong...
If I was wrong, I'd be responsible for his continued suffering. For prolonging his pain instead of granting him peace. For choosing my hope over his mercy.
But I couldn't let them kill him. I couldn't stand by and watch them give up on him when I knew—knew—he was still in there.
My brother's face flashed through my mind.
Danny, bleeding out while I screamed for help that came too late.
I'd have given anything to save him. Anything.
Every dime I had, every favor I could call in, every experimental treatment or risky procedure.
But there'd been nothing. No medical intervention could reach him in time, no miracle cure, no second chance.
Just me, holding his hand as the light left his eyes, helpless and broken and too fucking late.
I couldn't save Danny.
But maybe—maybe—I could save Enslak.
"I won't let you down," I whispered, my thumb tracing circles on the back of his hand. "I promise. Whatever it takes, I'll reach you."
His hand was warm in mine. Solid. Real.
Alive.
And I was going to keep him that way.
George finished with the translator just as Binwee returned, slightly out of breath but grinning.
"Ship's ready," she said. "Loaded with supplies, autopilot programmed, tracker disabled. We're good to go."
"How do we move him without being seen?" I asked.
"Service corridors," Binwee said. "They run parallel to the main passages. Maintenance and cargo transport. At this hour, they should be empty."
"Should be?" George asked.
"Will be," Binwee corrected. "I've checked the schedules. We have a thirty-minute window. That's it."
"Then let's not waste time," I said.
Moving Enslak was harder than I'd anticipated. Even sedated, he was massive—easily three hundred pounds of solid muscle. George produced a hover-gurney that took most of the weight, but we still had to guide it, and every bump and turn sent my heart racing with the fear we'd be discovered.
The service corridors were exactly as Binwee had described—narrow, dimly lit, lined with pipes and conduits. Our footsteps echoed in the confined space, each sound impossibly loud.
At the first junction, I froze.
Voices drifted from somewhere ahead—muffled, indistinct, but definitely there. My hand shot out, gripping George's arm hard enough to bruise.
We stood there, the hover-gurney humming softly between us, while my heart tried to hammer its way out of my chest. The voices grew louder. Closer. I could make out words now—something about shift rotations and someone named Uust who was always late.
Then they faded, moving away down a parallel corridor.
"Clear," Binwee whispered, and we moved forward again.
Every twenty feet brought fresh terror. A sudden hiss from the overhead pipes made me jump so hard I nearly knocked the gurney into the wall.
A distant clang of metal on metal had me convinced someone was following us.
When we passed a maintenance access panel, I was certain I saw movement in the shadows beyond it—but when I looked again, there was nothing.
At the second junction, a light flickered on somewhere behind us.
"Go," George urged, his voice tight. "Don't stop."
We picked up the pace, the hover-gurney wobbling as we rushed around the corner. My breath came in short, sharp gasps. Any second now, someone would round that corner. Any second, alarms would blare. Any second, we'd be caught and Enslak would be dragged back to certain death.
At the third junction, footsteps echoed from somewhere above us—the main corridor, probably, separated from us by only a thin layer of deck plating. I could hear them clearly: the heavy tread of boots, multiple sets, moving with purpose.
Security patrol.
We pressed ourselves against the wall, barely breathing, as they passed overhead. The hover-gurney's hum seemed deafening in the silence. Surely they could hear it. Surely they'd investigate.
But they kept walking, their footsteps fading into the distance.
"Two more turns," Binwee whispered.
Two more chances to be discovered. Two more opportunities for everything to fall apart.
A door opened somewhere nearby—the screech of metal on metal making me flinch. Someone laughed, the sound carrying through the corridors in a way that made it impossible to tell how close they were. Ten feet? Fifty? Right around the next corner?
My hands shook so badly I could barely grip the gurney's handle.
When a sudden burst of steam erupted from a pipe junction ahead, I nearly screamed.
"Just the environmental systems," Binwee said, though her voice was tight. She was nervous too. We all were.
One more turn. One more corridor.
By the time we reached the docking bay where Binwee's ship waited, my nerves were completely shot.
The ship was small—barely large enough for two people—but sleek and well-maintained. When Binwee opened the hatch, I saw she'd already packed everything we might need.
Food. Water. Medical supplies. Weapons. Blankets. A month's worth of survival gear compressed into a space the size of a studio apartment.
"Help me get him aboard," George said, and together we maneuvered the hover-gurney up the ramp.
Enslak fit in the small cargo area, but just barely. We secured him with straps to keep him from rolling during flight, and I checked them three times to make sure they'd hold.
"The autopilot's already programmed," Binwee said, showing me the controls. "Flight deck has me logged for a routine maintenance run—they won't suspect anything. Just press this when you're ready to launch. The ship will handle the rest. Flight time is about six hours."
"And Avalon?" I asked.
"Beautiful," Binwee said. "Lush. Peaceful. Lots of fresh water, edible plants, game if you can hunt. The perfect place to heal."
"Or die," I said quietly.
Binwee's expression softened. "You're not going to die, Niki. And neither is he. You're going to reach him. I know you will."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because I saw the way he looked at you on Merisalle," Binwee said. "He wasn't just protecting you. He was seeing you. And that means something."
George approached, holding out the injector I'd left on a tray in the medi-bay. "Remember. If you can't reach him—"
"I will," I said, taking the injector and tucking it into my pack with shaking fingers. "I have to."
George nodded. "I've included instructions for his care—how to manage the sedation, how to wake him safely, what to watch for. Read them carefully."
"I will."
"And Niki?" George's large eyes were serious. "Be careful. Even sedated, he's still dangerous. If he wakes confused or frightened, he could hurt you without meaning to."
"I know."
"Do you?" George moved closer. "Because I need you to really understand.
The Enslak you met on Merisalle—the one who protected you, who held your hand—he might not be the one who wakes up on Avalon.
The walls in his mind are strong, and breaking through them could release things that are difficult. Violent. Painful."
"I understand," I said, though I wasn't sure I really did.
George studied me for another moment, then nodded. "Good luck, Detective. I hope you prove me wrong about everything."
"Me too."
Binwee pulled me into a quick, fierce hug. "I'll give you thirty days," she whispered. "Then I have to tell the Prime. I'm sorry, but—"
"I know," I said. "It's okay. Thirty days is enough."
It had to be.