29. Tyrok
TYROK
T he estate comes into view like a pretty lie—too clean, too still, too composed for something that’s about to be torn open, and as I bring the strike vessel down through the upper atmosphere, I can already see the defensive grid begin to shift in response to my approach.
It’s subtle at first, a flicker across the outer perimeter, energy nodes waking in sequence, layered shielding coming online in a pattern that tells me exactly how confident they are in their ability to hold.
Not confident enough.
“Targeting grid active,” the onboard system reports, its tone steady as it maps the estate’s defenses across my display. “Surface batteries charging.”
“I see them,” I reply, my eyes tracking the pattern instead of the weapons themselves, because the weapons aren’t the problem.
The structure is.
I adjust my trajectory slightly, not slowing, not deviating enough to trigger a full recalibration on their end, just enough to shift the angle of approach.
“They’re expecting a direct assault,” I say, more to myself than the system.
“Confirmed,” it responds. “Optimal countermeasure: evasive maneuver followed by?—”
“No,” I cut in, my voice flattening. “No evasive patterns. No wide engagement.”
“Clarify intent.”
“Precision entry,” I say.
The system hesitates, just enough to register the deviation from standard protocol.
“High-risk,” it says.
“Yes,” I reply.
The estate’s outer defenses flare as I close distance, the first volley charging, energy building in sharp pulses that ripple outward like a warning.
“Incoming fire,” the system says.
“I know,” I answer, my hands tightening slightly on the controls as I hold course just long enough?—
Then shift.
Not away.
Through.
The first blast streaks past the hull, close enough that the heat flashes across the viewport in a brief distortion, and I angle the vessel downward, cutting across their targeting solution instead of avoiding it entirely.
“Shield integrity?—”
“Hold it,” I snap.
The second volley comes faster, tighter, their systems adjusting, learning, but I’m already inside their outer arc before they can correct fully, the ship shuddering as residual energy grazes the shielding.
“Impact registered,” the system reports.
“Minimal,” I reply.
“Structural strain increasing.”
“I’m aware.”
The estate fills the viewport now, the landing platforms, the layered architecture, the pathways I already mapped from her broadcast.
“She’s inside,” I murmur.
“Signal confirmed within central structure,” the system replies.
Good.
That’s all I need.
“Disable the grid,” I say.
“Specify method.”
I narrow my focus, isolating the nodes, the pattern, the rhythm of their power distribution.
“Target relay points,” I say. “Sequential disruption. No cascade failure.”
“Cascade would ensure?—”
“It would level the structure,” I cut in. “Not acceptable.”
The system recalibrates.
“Targeting adjusted.”
I fire.
Not wide.
Not overwhelming.
Precise.
The first relay node collapses in a burst, energy flickering out instead of detonating, and the second follows before the system can compensate, the grid destabilizing in a ripple instead of a collapse.
“They’re rerouting,” the system says.
“They won’t be fast enough,” I reply.
I hit the third node just as the grid attempts to stabilize, the pattern breaking completely this time, defenses flickering, then failing in sections instead of all at once.
“Outer shield compromised,” the system confirms.
“Good.”
I don’t slow.
I don’t circle.
I bring the vessel down hard into the primary landing zone, the hull vibrating as it meets the surface, engines cutting just enough to hold position without broadcasting unnecessary signal.
“Landing complete,” the system says.
I’m already moving.
The ramp drops with a sharp mechanical release, and the air hits me immediately—cooler than inside the ship, carrying the sterile scent of the estate layered over something sharper now, something disrupted.
“Multiple hostiles inbound,” the system warns.
“I see them,” I say, stepping down onto the platform.
They’re already moving toward me, disciplined, trained, weapons raised, their formation tight enough to be effective but not adaptive enough to handle what they’re about to face.
“Stand down!” one of them shouts, his voice amplified, trying to assert control over something that’s already out of his hands.
I don’t slow.
“You’re in the wrong place,” I reply, my voice carrying without needing volume.
He fires first.
Predictable.
The shot cuts across the space between us, fast, precise?—
And irrelevant.
I shift just enough to let it pass, closing the distance before he can correct, my hand catching his weapon and redirecting it downward, the force of it driving him off balance as I strike once, cold, efficient, dropping him without excess.
The others adjust immediately, spreading out, trying to flank.
Better.
“Take him down!” another guard shouts, his voice tighter now, urgency creeping in.
They move.
I move faster. Every motion deliberate, each strike placed with purpose, disabling instead of destroying, breaking formation instead of bodies, because I don’t need them dead.
I need them out of the way.
A second guard lunges, close-range, trying to force engagement, and I catch his momentum, redirect it, send him into the ground hard enough to keep him there.
A third fires from the side.
I turn into it.
Close the distance.
End it.
“Fall back!” someone yells, his voice cracking slightly.
Too late.
The resistance fractures, discipline slipping as fear replaces structure, and within seconds, the path is clear.
I don’t pause.
I don’t look back.
I move into the estate.
The interior feels exactly like I expected—curated, designed to project power instead of hold it, and as I move through the corridors, I can feel the disruption spreading ahead of me, alarms beginning to trigger, systems shifting from passive to reactive.
“She’s ahead,” I say.
“Signal unchanged,” the system confirms.
“Baronet location?” I ask.
“Moving,” it replies. “Rapid displacement. Opposite vector.”
Running.
Of course he is.
For a moment, the decision presents itself clearly, cleanly.
Pursue him.
End it.
Remove the variable permanently.
My jaw tightens.
And I don’t turn.
“She comes first,” I say.
The words settle into something final.
“Understood,” the system replies.
I move faster.
The corridors narrow, the architecture funneling movement toward the central chamber, and I can hear it now—voices ahead, sharper, more urgent, the quiet of the estate breaking into something closer to panic.
“Secure the perimeter!” someone shouts.
“She’s still inside!” another voice answers.
Good.
That’s where I’m going.
I reach the final door and don’t slow as I hit it, the panel cracking under the force as it opens, the room beyond expanding instantly into view?—
And there she is.
Stacy stands at the center of it, exactly where I knew she would be, her posture composed, her expression stoic in a way that tells me she’s already accounted for everything except this moment.
Lorens is already moving.
Backing away.
Retreating toward an exit behind him, his composure shattered now, replaced by something closer to fear.
“You—” he starts, his voice breaking slightly as he looks at me.
I don’t answer him.
I don’t even fully register him.
My focus locks onto her.
“You’re late,” she says, her voice steady, though there’s something under it that wasn’t there before.
“I had to make an entrance,” I reply, stepping forward.
Behind her, Lorens turns and runs.
The movement registers.
The decision presents itself again.
I don’t take it.
“Seal the exits!” one of the guards shouts from somewhere behind me.
Irrelevant.
“He’s getting away,” Stacy says, her gaze flicking briefly toward the direction Lorens fled before returning to me.
“I know,” I reply.
“And you’re not going after him,” she says.
“No.”
The word lands clean.
Final.
Her eyes narrow slightly, reading that, understanding it.
“Why,” she asks.
I close the remaining distance between us, stopping just short of contact.
“Because you’re here,” I say.
That answers everything.
For a moment, neither of us moves, the noise of the estate rising around us, alarms building, footsteps approaching, the situation expanding outward again.
“We need to go,” she says.
“Yes,” I agree.
Her gaze searches mine, not for confirmation, but for alignment.
“You didn’t bring the fleet,” she says.
“No,” I reply.
“Of course you didn’t,” she mutters, something like frustration and something like recognition threading through it.
“Can you move?” I ask.
She straightens slightly.
“I never stopped,” she says.
Good.
I reach for her then, not hesitating, my hand closing around her arm, grounding, confirming, and for a fraction of a second, everything else falls away.
Then it comes back.
Fast.
Loud.
Unresolved.
“Multiple hostiles inbound,” the system warns.
“Let them come,” I say.
But we’re already moving.
Back the way I came.
Out.
Because this?—
This part is done.
Everything else?—
Isn’t.