23. Nyra
NYRA
As the ringing in my ears finally fades, the heavy, wet thud of the last boarder hitting the deck echoes in the galley.
Smoke curls from the barrel of the heavy kinetic sidearm Draevik gave me back in the bunker, a bitter ribbon of gray that joins the haze of the galley.
Draevik stands among the carnage, his chest heaving, his pallid, vein-laced skin slicked with a mixture of his blood and the copper-scented spray of our enemies.
He looks like a god of ruin, yet when he turns to me, the crimson fire in his eyes settles into something grounding.
"The threat in this sector is neutralized," he states in a bass tone that rattles the hanging pots above the prep station.
"We have bigger problems than three dead scavengers," I warn him, holstering the pistol and sliding down from the gantry.
I land light on my feet, my boots splashing into a shallow pool of leaked coolant.
"Look at the primary terminal. The boarders prioritized frying the nutrient processors alongside stealing the medical supplies. "
I move to the console, my fingers flying over the keys. The interface displays a chaotic mess of Hegemony script and warning flashes. I glance at the digital footprints Selra left behind—the flickering, ghost-like code gnawing at the ship’s resource management.
"She’s using a standard scavenger’s loop," I point out, gesturing at the screen as Draevik looms over my shoulder. "It’s a parasite program. It tricks the ship into thinking the processors are overheating, which triggers an automated vent of the entire food supply into space."
"The logic is flawed," Draevik states, his large hand coming up to hover near the screen. "The processors are cold."
"The ship thinks they’re melting because Selra’s tech is lying to the sensors.
" The logic pours out in a fast, breathless rush, carrying the jagged edges of a fight that isn't quite over yet. "I can shunt the sensor data through the secondary cooling loop. It’ll bypass her loop entirely. While I’m doing that, you need to manually lock the exterior ejection ports.
If blocked from venting the supplies, she will shift tactics and surge the power grid to blow the seals. "
Draevik pauses, his fiery eyes searching my face. I expect a demand for my retreat or a barked order to stay behind him. Instead, he nods, a sharp, decisive movement.
"I will secure the physical seals," he announces. "Execute the shunt."
I grin, a fierce, sharp thing. Working with him feels like a choreographed dance where we both know the steps.
Diving into the sub-panels beneath the console, I pull back the plating to reveal a beautiful, terrifying nest of glimmering fiber optics.
Grabbing a multi-tool from the side—a standard-issue Hegemony wrench that feels heavy and reliable in my hand.
I find the primary sensor trunk, a bundle of cables showing a sickly agitated red.
That’s Selra’s influence. I work quickly, my fingers nimble despite the movement of the ship.
I strip the casing from a dormant secondary cooling line, exposing the cool, blue-white light of the auxiliary data path.
I pull a piece of conductive copper wire I scavenged earlier, twisting the frayed ends to prepare the bypass. But just as I move to bridge the two nodes, the console speakers crackle to life.
"Your response time represents a statistical anomaly for a Fringe inhabitant," Selra's voice echoes through the galley, smooth, flat, and intensely clinical. "I can track your signature in the systems, little anchor. You are operating as a secondary processor for his bandwidth."
Freezing for a microsecond, I watch Draevik's head snap toward the speaker, his red eyes flaring with fresh outrage.
"You're poking around in a brain too big for you, Selra," I shoot back, my fingers working faster.
"Oh, I'm already inside the synapses," she counters, the ship’s lights flickering as her code surges. "Did you really think a Warlord would keep a human around unless he was broken? I felt the feedback loop through your bond. If I squeeze you, he bleeds. Let’s see how much pressure he can take."
I ignore her taunt and plunge the copper wire into the open ports, completing the circuit.
A sharp tang of ozone blooms as the current leaps the gap in a crackling arc.
I watch the monitor as the malignant, red parasite code stutters, trapped inside the loop I just closed.
I clip the primary feed, effectively cutting her off.
"Stay in the dark, you little ghost," I mutter under my breath.
The console chirps, the red flashes transitioning to a calm, manageable amber as the ship’s authentic data takes over. The nutrient processors whir with a deeper, more satisfied resonance, their internal temperature readings finally matching the reality of the room.
"Shunt complete," I shout over the groan of the ship. "The sensors are reading true now. Selra’s ghost is trapped in a dead-end circuit."
"The seals are locked," Draevik calls from across the room, his fist hitting the manual override with a resounding clang.
He moves back to me, his presence a massive, warm weight that fills the space.
He reaches out, his thumb catching a smudge of grease on my cheek.
The touch is brief, but the heat of it lingers, sparking against the mark.
I look up at him, and for a moment, the war outside the galley doors feels like a distant memory.
The way he looks at me has shifted. His predatory gaze has evolved into a Warlord admiring a scrap-heap queen.
"You possess a tactical mind for infrastructure." The compliment goes through the floor.
"Scavengers have to know how things break if we want to survive the aftermath," I share softly, leaning into his touch for a fleeting second. "But we need to move. If Selra is playing with the galley sensors, she’s definitely hitting the atmospheric scrubbers in the crew quarters next. She knows we’re coming for her, and she’s going to make the air too thin to fight in. "
"Then we shall ensure she runs out of air first," he declares, his hand sliding to the small of my back to guide me toward the exit.
I stick close to his side, our strides falling into unison.
I’m more than a scavenger following a Warlord now.
I’m the one pointing out the cracks in the walls before they can crumble.
As we step over the fallen boarders and head back into the dark corridors, I realize I’m no longer just trying to live. I’m trying to win.
We move through the narrow artery of the secondary corridor, my hand resting lightly against the cold onyx wall to keep my balance as the ship lurches.
The lighting here is sporadic, flickering between a dim violet and a harsh, warning crimson.
Draevik looms ahead, a shadow whose movements carry a surprising silence for one of his mass.
He pauses at the threshold of the crew quarters, his head tilting as his sensors pick up something I can only feel as a faint whirring in the deck plates.
"Three targets," he warns, the sound a cautious hammering that makes the mark ache. "They are barricaded behind the central dormitory lockers. They have pulse-shielding."
"Pulse-shields won't stop a structural override.
" I move to his side and peer around his massive shoulder, spotting the faint blue shimmer of the energy barrier at the hall’s distant edge.
The boarders huddle there, their voices a frantic, whispering jabber.
"The defense turrets in this hallway are offline, but they aren't destroyed.
If I can get to the maintenance panel in the floor, I can hotwire the targeting sensors to ignore the IFF codes and just hit everything that isn't us. "
Draevik turns his head, searching the darkness before settling on me. "The panel is exposed to their line of sight. They will prioritize you the moment the shielding drops."
"That’s why you’re the distraction." I check the power cell in my sidearm. "You draw their fire. I’ll be under the floorboards before they realize I’m moving. Once the turrets wake up, they’ll be too busy staying alive to worry about a scavenger in the vents."
I expect a protest, a reminder of my fragility, but Draevik only nods. He reaches out, his hand lingering on my shoulder for a heartbeat, his thumb pressing firmly against the fabric of my suit. It wafts through the space as a silent acknowledgment of my plan—a partnership in the making.
"I will provide the opening," he agrees.
He surges forward into the hallway, his massive kinetic rifle barking a thunderous succession that drowns out the sirens.
The boarders scream, their pulse-shields flaring as they return fire.
The air becomes a chaotic mess of blue and orange streaks.
I dive for the maintenance hatch, my fingers catching the handle and wrenching it upward.
I drop into the shallow crawlspace, the smell of dust and old electricity filling my lungs. Above me, the floorboards rattle with the impact of Draevik’s heavy boots and the hiss of incoming fire. He stands like a wall of muscle, absorbing the brunt of their aggression while I work.
I find the turret control hub, a dense cluster of copper veins and silicon chips.
My hands move with a frantic, focused speed.
I use the toothed edge of the shard I kept to strip the main data line.
I need a violent fix. I bridge the emergency power bus directly into the firing mechanism, bypassing the safety protocols that usually prevent the ship from shooting its own crew.
"Almost there," my teeth grit against the metallic tang in the air.