Chapter 16 Lonari #2
I step closer. “You’re injured and you’re too valuable to risk. You act as internal commander. You hold Gur. You keep ceasefires. You keep civilians alive. You keep my territory from collapsing while I’m gone.”
Fyr’s jaw works like he wants to argue, but the pain in his shoulder makes him swallow it.
“I don’t want to babysit,” he rasps.
“This isn’t babysitting,” I say. “This is command.”
That lands. His ego likes command.
He nods once, grudging. “Fine.”
I turn to Captain Jessa. “You run boarding teams.”
She grins, feral. “Gladly.”
I look at the tech ops lead—Mira, a woman with grease under her nails and eyes that look like she sleeps with one ear on a server rack. “You coordinate with Jordan’s known hack style.”
Mira blinks. “Her—hack style?”
I nod. “She leaves fingerprints. Patterns. She thinks like a systems engineer who grew up hiding in institutions. She’ll build backdoors, not brute force. You anticipate her moves so we can find her faster.”
Mira’s expression shifts—respect, interest. “Copy.”
I turn to med lead—Dr. Senn, a grizzled Vakutan with a scar down his snout. “Prep trauma bays.”
Senn nods once. “Expect burns. Restraint injuries. Malnutrition.”
My chest tightens. I keep it leashed.
“Also,” I add, “prepare for chemical exposure. Morazin likes gas.”
Renn’s voice is low. “Procurement’s already looking for ships. We can buy—”
“No,” I say sharply. “We don’t buy from anyone tied to the Nine. We buy clean, or we buy stolen.”
A few faces brighten at the word stolen. Criminals understand stolen.
Renn nods. “I’ve got options.”
I make my next choice—a strategic one over pride.
“Temporary contracts,” I say. “Non-Kaijen merc crews.”
The room stills again.
A captain frowns. “Boss, bringing outsiders—”
“Gives us manpower without surrendering control,” I cut in. “We hire on my terms. Short leash. Clear payout. No access to our internal comms. If they betray us, they don’t leave Terranus V breathing.”
Renn studies me, then nods slowly. “That’ll work.”
Fyr mutters, “You’re really doing it.”
I glance at him. “Yeah.”
He swallows. “For her.”
I don’t answer that part out loud.
Because it’s true, and truth makes people reckless.
The cruiser we buy is ugly in the way serious ships are ugly—no sleek curves meant for holo-ads, just armor plating, reinforced comm arrays, a prow designed to bite through debris and keep going.
Its hull smells like coolant and old metal and recently welded seams. The engine hum is deeper than the shuttle I stole from Gur, a steady predator purr.
We rename it in the bay, because names matter, and because superstition is just strategy wearing a costume.
Renn offers a few options. Jessa suggests something obscene.
I pick something simple.
“Nun’s Tooth,” I say.
Renn blinks. “Boss—”
“It’s a reminder,” I reply. “We bite.”
Nobody argues.
We load supplies fast—boarding gear, jammer countermeasures, explosives for relay sabotage, med packs, restraint cutters, encrypted comm modules keyed only to my channel. The crew moves with grim purpose. The bay smells like fuel, sweat, and gun oil.
Gur is still burning outside. Fyr stays behind, standing on the bay catwalk, arm in a sling, face tight.
He catches my eye.
“You bring her back,” he says, voice rough.
I nod. “Hold the city.”
He bares his teeth. “Always.”
Renn leans close. “Stealth approach?”
“Stealth,” I confirm. “Comms dark unless on my encrypted channel. Jordan’s signal gets priority over everything. If a Nine convoy is in our way, we go around. If Morazin is in our way, we go through.”
Renn’s jaw tightens. “Copy.”
I step onto the bridge.
The bridge smells like new wiring and old ship ghosts—sterile metal with a faint lingering musk of previous crews. The pilot chair is too small for me, so I adjust it with an annoyed grunt and sit anyway, claws tapping the console like impatient punctuation.
Stars fill the forward viewport, cold and indifferent.
Terranus V sits on the nav display like a warning.
A death-world.
A stage.
A place where people die for spectacle and others clap.
Not tonight.
I key my encrypted channel and speak to the crew, voice steady.
“Launch,” I order.
The cruiser shudders, engines spooling. The bay doors yawn open, and the cold of space rushes in like a slap.
We slide out of Gur’s orbit under minimal signature—no bright flares, no proud broadcasts. Just quiet acceleration, like a knife slipping under a rib.
As we clear atmosphere, the city’s neon fades beneath us, shrinking into a glittering bruise.
I should feel proud.
I feel hungry.
Because in my pocket, Jordan’s beacon is still warm from her ping, and my body remembers her hands on my chest, her voice saying she chooses—deliberate, stubborn, alive.
I don’t do sentimental. Sentimental gets you killed.
But alone on the bridge, with engines humming and stars stretching ahead, I do something I haven’t done in years.
I record a message.
Not on the main system. Not on anything traceable. On a tiny isolated buffer that I can wipe with one command.
My voice comes out low, rough, like I’m talking through teeth.
“Jordan,” I say, “stay alive. Stall him. I’m coming.”
I pause, because my chest tightens like it’s trying to say more.
I don’t let it.
I end the recording.
Then I wipe the file—clean, irreversible, no recovery—because even hope can be used as leverage if the wrong hands find it.
Renn glances at me from his console, eyebrows raised. He doesn’t ask.
Good.
We go dark.
Comms quiet.
Engines steady.
And the Nun’s Tooth slips into the black between worlds, hunting a man who thinks truth is a commodity and a woman who thinks truth is a weapon.
He’s about to learn what happens when those weapons meet.