Chapter 11
RHEA
The engine hum is a cough and a rattle, like a throat too long coated in rust and regret.
The freighter we’re holed up in isn’t much more than a floating scrapyard—mid-orbit, patched together with cargo containers and chewing gum optimism.
The walls creak. The air recyclers wheeze.
And the light? Half-glow tubes that flicker like they’re afraid of the dark.
This place doesn’t feel safe. It feels forgotten.
Which, I guess, is the point.
Valtron says the Combine won’t look for us here. Too much electromagnetic interference. Too much traffic from smugglers and rustrats who don’t report their heat trails. The kind of place that eats secrets and spits out salvage.
I sit on a bolted-down crate wrapped in stained synth-leather, chewing the inside of my cheek while the portable decryption rig flickers like it’s trying not to die.
We salvaged it from a downed Alliance scout pod outside Vorthys orbit.
Leena said the architecture might work better with the packet’s last lockbox.
Said it’d give us a fighting chance to finish this before the Combine figures out we’re still alive.
But it’s Valtron I’m watching.
He’s not resting.
Not recharging.
He’s moving.
Over and over and over again.
Out past the main compartment, where the ship’s half-disassembled cargo hold opens up like the ribs of some dead metal whale, Valtron trains.
Shirtless. Barefoot. Sweat slicks the deep red of his scales.
His tail lashes with every turn. Every punch.
Every motion that’s just a little too hard, too fast, too angry to be called practice.
He’s in a war with something I can’t see.
And that scares the hell out of me.
I stand, stretch the kink out of my neck, and walk toward him. The floor underfoot is metal on metal, ridged for grip but warped in places from heat damage. Every step clanks. Every breath echoes.
He doesn’t stop when I approach.
Doesn’t even glance at me.
Just pivots into a spin kick that cracks against the wall with a dull, heavy boom.
“Training or trying to break the ship in half?” I ask, folding my arms. My voice sounds smaller out here, like the air’s not sure it wants to carry my words.
He pauses. Barely. Just enough to register that I’m there. Then he slams into another combination—fist, elbow, tail swipe. Controlled violence honed into a dance. A brutal, silent symphony.
“Valtron.” I say it sharper this time. “Talk to me.”
“I’m busy.”
“No, you’re brooding.”
He growls low. “I’m preparing.”
“For what?”
Silence.
That’s the answer, isn’t it?
I walk closer. Close enough to see the tremble in his shoulders—not from fatigue, but restraint. His fists clench. His jaw works.
“Something’s wrong,” I whisper.
His eyes flick to mine. Gold and molten and furious.
“Stop.”
“No. You’ve been spinning like a loaded weapon since we left the relay station. You barely sleep. You don’t eat unless I make you. And now you’re tearing this cargo bay apart with your bare hands like it insulted your mother. What the hell is going on?”
He stares at me, breathing hard. His chest rises and falls like thunder trapped under skin. Then, without a word, he walks past me. Toward the far wall. Where he keeps the comm pad locked in a magnetic holster.
He pulls it free.
Taps.
And holds it out.
The screen lights up.
A single phrase glows blood-red across the interface:
RECALL PRIORITY: EXTRACT ASSET DELTA-NINE (ROGUE AI NODE) — RESPONSE OVERDUE
I blink. My blood goes cold.
“What is that?”
He doesn’t look at me. Just talks to the floor.
“It came through the scrambler net. Black code. One use. Untraceable.”
“When?”
“Three days ago.”
My heart stutters. “Three days ago? Three—Valtron, are you kidding me?”
“I ignored it.”
“Why?”
Now he looks up.
And his face is cracked open.
Not angry. Not armored. Just raw.
“Because I wanted one damn thing that wasn’t duty.”
The words gut me.
He steps forward, comm pad dangling at his side. “I go now, I disappear. Blackout planet. Warfront. No extraction plan. No backup. Just a data ghost and a kill order with a pretty name.”
I can barely breathe. “And if you don’t?”
“I get others killed.”
The silence between us isn’t silence. It’s a scream held under water. It’s every unsaid word pressing against my ribs.
“You knew this,” I say, voice shaking, “and you didn’t tell me.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Bullshit.”
“I couldn’t.” His voice cracks. “You were finally starting to feel safe again. You were talking about a future. About us. About trying. And I wanted that. I still want that. But if I told you what this was—what it meant—you’d look at me like I was already gone.”
“And you thought lying would fix that?”
“I thought maybe I could buy us time.”
“Time to what? Pretend this was normal? That you weren’t going to vanish into another goddamn suicide mission and leave me wondering if I’d ever see you again?”
He looks away.
Which tells me everything.
I press my palm to my chest, like I can hold my heart in place before it breaks through my ribs.
“You bastard,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“I would’ve helped you. I could’ve helped you.”
“I didn’t want help.”
“Then what the hell do you want?”
His eyes snap to mine.
“You.”
The word is so simple, so stupidly human, it punches the air out of me.
“I wanted you, Rhea. Not the mission. Not the orders. Not the war. Just—this. This broken, seedy freighter and your voice bitching at me to eat something besides rations. Your hands on that rig like you’re gonna will the damn code into telling the truth. You, safe. Here. With me.”
My knees almost give.
And then, like an idiot, I step forward and slap him.
Hard.
His head barely moves. But his eyes widen like I stabbed him.
“You don’t get to make that decision alone,” I hiss. “Not anymore.”
He doesn’t answer.
I grab the comm pad from his hand. Read the message again. The words swim. They hurt. They feel like a countdown.
“How long until they come looking?”
He shrugs. “They won’t. This isn’t that kind of mission. You say no, they write you off.”
“And if you say yes?”
He exhales. “I don’t come back.”
I stare at him.
Really stare.
At the man who saved my life more times than I can count. At the soldier who never asked for love but found it anyway. At the bastard who left me once and now stands here, trying not to do it again.
“I hate you,” I whisper.
He nods. “I deserve that.”
“I love you,” I add.
His breath catches.
And for the first time since we got here, he looks afraid.
Really, truly afraid.
Of what this means.
Of what comes next.
Of me.
And maybe that’s the most honest thing he’s ever shown me.
We don’t move.
Not for a long time.
Just two people standing in the hollow bones of a dying ship, trying to outrun fate.
And failing.
I walk away.
I don’t storm off. I don’t scream. I don’t even slam the door. I just turn, heart punching against my ribcage, lungs locked around something too thick to swallow. My boots clank on the warped floor panels as I retreat to the main hold, trying not to hear the hollow echo of silence chasing me.
I sit in the dark. Let the hum of the failing reactor buzz in my bones. The decryption rig casts faint green light across the floor, fractured like a broken promise. The data scrolls—fragments of horror and truth in equal measure.
I’m shaking.
Not from fear.
From fury. From heartbreak. From the goddamn weight of it all.
He was gonna leave. Just go. Like that. No warning, no plan. And I wouldn’t have known until I woke up to an empty freighter and static on the comms.
The worst part? I get it.
That’s what makes me want to scream.
Because I know him. Valtron is carved out of duty and guilt and fire. He was born to protect people who never thank him and never ask what it costs. I knew that from the moment he stepped into my apartment and took a blaster bolt meant for me without blinking.
But knowing it doesn’t make it hurt less.
I bury my face in my hands. The air smells like ozone and metal and burnt-out wiring. Like sweat and stubbornness. Like him.
The rig pings.
Soft. Just once.
I look up.
A file glows on the screen. Newly decrypted. Labeled: “FINAL CULL SEQUENCE – INTERNAL APPROVALS.”
My stomach twists.
I tap it open.
It’s a log. Not just names. Not just dates.
But signatures.
Authorizations from Helios Combine executives. Contractual language buried in pages of legal sludge that, if you know where to look, paints a picture in blood.
“Subject Z-113 neutralized due to compliance instability. Protocol Fireglass enacted.”
“Whistleblowing risk—containment approved. Frame local contractor. Incident to read as lab accident.”
“Leak suppression team deployed. Collateral acceptable. Civilian visibility: minimum.”
It’s not just circumstantial. It’s proof.
They staged it. Every damn one. The accidents. The fires. The crashes.
Quinn didn’t just get too close—he stepped on a landmine they laid years ago.
My throat burns.
My fingers dig into the crate until the fake leather squeals.
I grab the pad. Stand. March.
I don’t hesitate this time.
I find him where I left him, crouched beside the cargo wall, head bowed, tail still, breathing ragged. The comm pad lies beside him like it burned his hand.
I stop in front of him.
He doesn’t look up.
So I crouch.
Place the data pad on his knee.
“This just unlocked.”
Nothing.
“Valtron. Look at me.”
He does.
And gods, he looks wrecked.
“I get it,” I say softly. “You’ve been trained to carry the world on your back. Since you were a kid, right? Since before you even had a say in it. You were taught to run into fire. To protect. To fight. And to never ask who was doing the burning.”
His jaw twitches.
“I’ve watched you bleed for people who don’t know your name. I’ve seen you throw yourself between me and death without even blinking. But maybe… maybe this time, you don’t have to.”
I reach for the pad. Tap the screen.
The words shine, sharp and cold.
Whistleblowers. Executions. “Acceptable” civilian losses.
His golden eyes scan the text. Slow. Careful.
When he speaks, his voice is sandpaper.
“How long have you had this?”
“It decrypted ten minutes ago.”
He keeps reading. His knuckles go white where they rest on his thighs.
“This proves everything,” he murmurs.
“Yeah.”
“Dowron won’t ignore this.”
“No. He won’t.”
He sets the pad down with reverence, like it might break. Like the truth might be too fragile after all this time.
I shift closer.
My knee brushes his.
“I need you to stay,” I say, and I hate how my voice catches. “Just a little longer. Just until we get to Dowron. Until we make this right. Until someone finally listens.”
He doesn’t speak.
But he’s looking at me now—really looking.
I rest my hand on his chest. Right over the scar where that blaster bolt hit him weeks ago. The skin beneath my palm is hot. His heart pounds steady and strong.
“Don’t leave me yet.”
His hand covers mine.
Slow.
Gentle.
He leans forward.
And when he kisses me, it’s different.
No firestorm. No edge-of-death adrenaline.
This kiss is slow.
Reverent.
Like he’s memorizing the shape of my mouth in case it’s the last time. Like he’s trying to say everything he’s too damn proud to put into words.
“I’m not leaving,” he breathes against my lips. “Not until I get you to Dowron. Not until I know you’re safe.”
My breath shudders.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.”
We don’t move quickly.
We move like we have all the time in the galaxy.
His fingers trace my jaw. My cheek. He brushes my hair behind my ear and presses his forehead to mine. I close my eyes. Let the moment wrap around me like a blanket that still smells like home.
There’s no bed in this rustbucket. Just a patch of half-clean floor near the core shielding, covered with a thermal blanket and whatever padding we could scrape from the medbay.
It doesn’t matter.
He lays me down like I’m something precious. His lips find mine again, slower now, softer. His hands map my body like it’s the first time all over again.
We don’t rush.
We ache.
There’s no desperation here. No panic.
Just the quiet ache of two people trying to hold onto something real before the universe rips it away again.
His body is heavy against mine, but never crushing. I trace the ridges of his spine, the heat of his scales, the sharp edge of his jaw as he dips to kiss the hollow of my throat.
He moves like prayer. Like penance.
Like maybe he believes this can redeem him somehow.
And I let him.
Because for a few stolen hours, we aren’t soldiers or targets or pawns in someone else’s endgame.
We’re just Rhea and Valtron.
Just two stupid, stubborn people who found something rare in the middle of a war and decided to keep it.
For as long as the stars allow.