22. Draevik #2
The boarders tore through here like a storm.
The growing racks—tall, elegant structures of black alloy and bioluminescent nutrient channels—have been ripped from the walls and gutted.
The plants that once filled them lie in scattered heaps of wilting green and crushed root fibers, their nutrient fluid pooling on the floor in iridescent puddles.
The scent is sharp and vegetal, mixed with the acrid tang of severed power lines.
"They were looking for the alloy in the racks," she mutters, crouching beside a dismantled growing column. "High-grade Hegemony metal. Worth a fortune on the Fringe markets."
“The racks were sustaining the atmospheric oxygen supplement for the lower decks." My gaze hardens as I survey the wreckage. "Without them, the scrubbers carry the full load. Another system running on borrowed time."
She picks through the debris and finds two racks still partially intact along the far wall—their nutrient channels cracked, their root systems still clinging to the remnants of whatever alien vegetation the ship was growing. She straightens the nearest one and wedges it back against the wall mount.
"These two are salvageable," Nyra reports. "The nutrient lines can be patched with sealant from the galley stores. It won't be pretty, but the plants will live."
I watch her work for a moment, then move to the second rack and steady it while she reconnects the mounting bolts. We work in silence, our hands moving in a tandem that feels practiced despite having never done this before.
The sound of the intruders grows louder. I can hear their voices through the vents—crude, loud, and arrogant. They have no idea that the Warlord and the Scavenger are already inside the walls.
"Ready?" I growl.
"Always," she promises.
With my strength returning in a sudden, violent surge, I wrench the hatch cover from its housing. Easing the groaning metal silently onto the deck, I step out into the sub-galley, my sensors immediately mapping the floor above us.
A small cluster of three targets remains. I can hear their boots clattering on the diamond-plate floor directly overhead. They are arguing over a crate of high-grade medical supplies, their voices loud and undisciplined.
"They are clustered near the main prep station," I report at a key only Nyra can hear.
My eyes follow her, noticing the way she holds the Hegemony sidearm.
She stands ready, her posture mirroring the tactical readiness I once expected only from a Reaper.
"The ventilation grate in the corner provides a clear line of sight.
I will breach the main doors and draw their fire.
You will secure the perimeter from the vents. "
Nyra tilts her head, her eyes scanning the overhead pipes. "The main doors are reinforced, Draevik. They’ll see you coming a mile away. If I climb the coolant rack, I can reach the overhead gantry. I’ll have the high ground and a better angle on the lead boarder."
I pause, my tactical processor running the variables. Standard protocol requires the Warlord to dictate the field. I should command her to follow the initial plan to ensure her total safety.
Abandoning the demand, I look from the gantry back to her determined expression, listening to her fix for our positioning.
"The gantry is stable, but the steam valves are prone to leaking," I report with a rumble of agreement. "Your plan provides a superior crossfire. I will wait for your signal before I breach."
"Good," she responds, a fierce, confident grin touching her lips. "Wait for the flash."
I watch as she scales the coolant rack with the agility of a predator. She moves with a silence that rivals my own stealth systems, her frame disappearing into the shadows of the upper machinery. I view her as a partner and force multiplier.
The idea of keeping her at my side permanently has integrated into my core. She belongs on Virex Prime. She belongs with me. I have woven her into my understanding of the ship’s survival. I find the thought of her departure impossible to entertain.
I move toward the primary entrance of the galley, my boots silent on the deck. We strike in perfect tandem: my frame catching the blows as the anvil, her aim dropping the hammer. The bond coiled in my chest trembles with a violent, possessive pride. We are a single organism of retribution.
A sharp, sequential clicking echoes from the gantry—Nyra’s signal.
I surge forward, my shoulder hitting the doors with the force of a falling star. The metal buckles and the hinges scream as I burst into the room. The boarders scramble, their crude rifles coming up in a frantic, disorganized mess.
"Reaper!" one yells, his voice cracking with terror.
I ignore his cry. I ignore the first volley of kinetic slugs that spark against my shoulder plates. I focus on the carnage.
Above the chaos, the first shot from the gantry rings out—a precise, lethal bolt that finds the neck of the lead boarder. Nyra’s aim is true. She provides the cover I need to close the distance. I seize the nearest man by the throat, the predatory look of my eyes illuminating his final moments.
"Your time is over," I declare, the sound shaking the very foundations of the galley.
We work in perfect, lethal synchronization. I become a storm on the ground—a whirlwind of pallid skin and biomechanical violence—while Nyra guards from the shadows. Every move she makes confirms the trust I have placed in her. We are reclaiming this ship, one intruder at a time.
The hunt exists as a shared victory.