25. Nyra #2
"Seven, prep the shuttle for remote ignition." The request pulls tight, a length of tempered wire snapping into a straight, unyielding line. "But don't engage the thrusters until I'm in the cockpit. I want total silence."
"Understood," the drone confirms. "Ignition sequence is buffered. Ready to facilitate your survival. We shall depart the 'here' for the 'there' shortly."
Getting to my feet, my legs feel like lead.
While I should be celebrating what is arguably the greatest heist of my life—stealing my own freedom from a Hegemony legend.
But as I pay attention to the blinking lights of the incoming fleet, all I can think of is Draevik standing alone in the dark, fighting for a ship that will forget his name.
I take a step toward the exit, my heartbeat stumbling into chaos. Movement carries me away, toward the life I know—the grit, the quick deals, and the silence of the void. Survival dictates every step.
I glance one last time at the Warlord. He is the most beautiful and terrifying thing I have ever seen, and for a heartbeat, I want to stay. I wish to see how the song ends. But then I remember the station collapse. I remember the cold. I remember that the only person who ever saved Nyra was Nyra.
"Let's go, Seven." I turn my back on the bridge. "Before I change my mind."
I reach the heavy blast doors, the metal cold and unforgiving beneath my palm.
The lock cycles with a muted hiss, inviting me into the dark safety of the transit tunnels.
One step. That’s all it takes. I’ve lived my whole life taking that step, moving from one crumbling station to the next, never looking back because there was never anything to look back for.
But my boots feel rooted to the deck plates.
I take in the schematic displaying Virex Prime, watching the blue lights of the systems I just fixed.
Those lights are only on because of me. The air he’s breathing is only clean because I spent hours scrubbing the vents.
If I leave, who keeps the core from overloading when the first railgun slug hits the hull?
"Why have we ceased forward momentum?" K-Seven asks as its thrusters cycle in place. "The exit is 1.2 meters away. The probability of survival decreases by 0.5 percent for every second we remain stationary."
"I know, Seven! Shut up!" I snap.
I turn around, looking back at the bridge. Draevik is still there, a lone warrior preparing to hold back the tide. His gaze fixes elsewhere. He is giving me exactly what I wanted—total autonomy. He is allowing me this moment of choice. And for some reason, that makes it impossible to move.
A sharp, practical realization cuts through my internal panic.
Even if I reach that scout ship, my odds are terrible.
A passive cloak might hide me in the drift, but the second I ignite the main thrusters to break Virex Prime's gravity well, it will create a massive displacement flare. Korr’s sweepers are primed for any sudden energy spikes.
They would lock onto a fleeing shuttle's launch burn immediately, and without my specialized salvage kit—left behind in the Harrow—I would be powerless to hack their lock-on cycles or manually disrupt their tracking missiles before the cloak could stabilize.
Running onto an unfamiliar Hegemony shuttle with only the clothes on my back screams "death sentence" in the Fringe. And if I do manage to launch, Korr’s fleet is already too close.
Their scanners are primed for high-velocity signatures.
They would intercept a fleeing shuttle immediately, and without my kit, I would be powerless to hack their lock-on cycles or manually disrupt their tracking.
"Analysis of equipment shortage?" K-Seven picks up on my hesitation. "Biological scans confirm zero auxiliary tools in your possession. Survival in neutral space with zero assets is estimated at 3 percent."
"I know." The conflict tears at me.
My past tells me to run. It reminds me of the debt collectors on Port Marrow who would have sold my organs for a handful of credits. It reminds me of the hunger, the constant, gnawing fear of being trapped. But my heart remembers how his eyes held me when he called me his partner.
"He's going to die," I realize aloud, the horror of it dropping into my gut like a stone.
"Probability of Warlord expiration is 89 percent given current fleet numbers," K-Seven reports with agonizing detachment. "Tactical advantage is negligible. Survival is found elsewhere."
I grip the doorframe until the metal bites into my skin. I can spot the shuttle in my mind—the small, safe cockpit, the quiet roar of the engines, the freedom of the open stars. I can practically taste the recycled air of a fringe station, the sweet relief of being a nobody again.
Then I peek at Draevik one more time. He is rerouting power to the shields, his massive frame shaking with the effort of holding the ship together. A relic of a dead empire meets a scavenger from the gutters of the galaxy, and in this moment, we become the only things that feel real.
"I'm a coward if I go," I blurt out, the words tasting like ash.
"Cowardice follows biology," K-Seven jabbers. "Survival obeys math. Please proceed to the exit."
I take one step forward, then one step back. I’m pulled between two lives, and now, neither feels certain. The door is open. The path is clear. The void waits. So does the man on the bridge—even if he’s unaware.
I pause in the doorway, the conflict pulling at me until I feel like I’m going to break. Nyra the survivor wars with Nyra the partner, and only one will survive the night.