Chapter 21 Lyra #2
Secure channel established. Lyra, I am initiating preliminary intrusion into Brill’s security system. I require access to a local node.
I wipe my sleeve across my face, fingers tightening into something that almost feels like resolve.
“There’s a sub-panel near the eastern wing. It’s here on the maintenance level that I’m already on. I can reach it,” I sniff.
“I’m going to patch you through to Vega,” Orion says. “He’s got a plan for getting you out of there.”
Thank the stars.
I lean back, the sound of Orion’s breathing still in my ear, and for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, I’m not just hiding. I’m moving forward.
From the crawlspace above the garage, I watch an entire galaxy of villains arrive.
The ships come down in gliding arcs, flaring their retro thrusters and disgorging passengers like dribbling retinues of entitled vomit.
Buyers, bodyguards, high-stakes parasites in polished boots, sweeping capes, and expensive jackets—move through the docking bays with that slow, entitled grace that says they’ve never bled for anything, never wanted for anything.
I track them through the vents, through slits in rust-streaked grates, their faces half-lit by the pulsing overheads and the stuttering crimson glow of exhaust lights.
The scents of ozone and engine grease rise up to my hiding place, and I can feel the vibration of landings in my ribs.
The landing bay and garage are twin hives of activity—cargo lifts grind and ascend to the upper floors of the compound, voices echo in languages I half-recognize—the laughter a little too sharp, a little too loud.
With a prickle of unease, I notice there are weapons absolutely everywhere.
Plasma rifles slung loose over shoulders, elegant daggers and plasma pistols holstered in places of pride.
It’s alarmingly lethal on the guards and mercenaries, but hilariously ostentatious on the buyers who’ve come to bid.
Void Stalkers are out in full force now, running patrols, scanning manifests, barking orders no one dares ignore. I count at least three new craft bearing Triumvirate insignia—one from Mallorus, even.
Hmm. I wonder if Fobos is here.
Beneath me, two guards pause near the service station, arguing quietly over whether I’m still in the compound.
One of them says Brill’s upped the bounty again, adding another million credits.
The second guard suggests my pussy’s the priciest thing for light-years around, making the first guard laugh like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.
My fingers tighten against the grate, but I don’t let myself react.
Instead, I breathe—shallow, controlled. Every inch of me is pressed flat against the metal, watching.
Waiting. I know what’s coming. Vega explained that the blackout’s been timed down to the second.
Ada will trigger it. Orion will be in position, hiding in Vega’s otherwise empty cruiser.
Vega’s already here, masquerading as the kind of buyer who traffics in people.
His fake idol is still with a faction of Void Stalkers, quietly feeding data to the by-the-book Feds who have to put together a case before they can so much as sneeze.
Even though I know it’s a ruse, disgust leaks from my pores and leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
Vega’s plan is meant to extract me, sure, but for as long as I’ve been crouched in these damn air ducts and ventilation shafts, I haven’t been able to work out what else is being auctioned off.
Or who else is being auctioned off. With all the millionaire, billionaire, trillionaire assholes arriving to purchase people like cuts of meat, I wonder if it wouldn’t be better to burn the whole fucking thing down.
Maybe that’s a dream for another day.
For now, I’m above it all, tucked into the stars-forsaken shadows, sweating through desert and exhaust-fueled heat. Through the copper-smelling dust coating me from head to toe, I’m finally bearing witness to the last calm before the chaos I helped design.
Despite everything that’s at stake and my habit of nervous, rumbling intestinal distress, I’m remarkably calm.
Maybe it’s the dehydration, or the days with only scraps of food, or the fact that either we’re going to succeed or we’re all going to die.
Whatever it is, I’m grateful for the oddly out-of-place sense of peace.
There’s a finality to everything that feels… comforting, somehow.
And more than anything, I’ll get to see Orion again.
Maybe for the last time, my mind whispers insidiously.
“No,” I hiss, just in time with the shrieking hydraulic whir of another ship landing in the compound.
A minute passes, maybe two. I count each heartbeat like a detonator tick. Somewhere below me, someone yells about a glitch in the docking assistant controls, and I smile grimly. That’s not a glitch, buddy. That’s my girl Ada, whispering through the compound’s digital bones.
Then it happens.
The first flicker is almost a tease—a flirt of darkness, a saucy little wink from the void.
The overhead lights blink once, twice, like they’re not sure whether to commit to this sudden existential crisis.
I feel the shift ripple through the garage like a nervous breath.
Someone drops a tool. A guard’s voice snaps sharp in the gloom.
Then a full blackout slams down, abrupt as a guillotine, and stars, the effect is delicious.
For a beat, the world below me seems to hold its breath.
It’s total darkness—not even the always-on emergency running lights flicker on.
I hear the echo of boots, the rustle of ships settling in place, and a low, collective murmur of “what the hell” from the assembled audience of buyers, thugs, guards, and general wealthy elite space trash.
Finally, the backup lights stutter to life—red strips bleeding across the garage floor like veins. An alarm pings somewhere, half-hearted and confused, as if the compound’s own systems aren’t sure what the hell just happened. Exactly as planned.
I can’t see Vega’s ship from this angle, but I know it’s there.
I saw it land earlier—sleek, matte, unmarked, the kind of cruiser a man pretending to have a soul would use to buy a person in style.
Ada’s hitching a ride in its nav systems, connected tenuously to her consciousness tucked into Orion’s borrowed cruiser.
Orion’s tucked inside Vega’s ship somewhere, hopefully safe.
I imagine him crouched in the shadows, tense and focused, smelling like sweat and mossy forest soil and everything I miss.
My infuriating, beautiful, righteous pain-in-my-ass.
Of all the things I've ruined, he’s the one I regret most.
And then, like an infection spreading through the nerves of a dying animal, the compound begins to unravel.
A powered lift locks up mid-load, grinding to a halt with an ear-piercing shriek that makes half the room jump.
A pair of drones flicker and fall out of the sky like drunk mosquitoes.
Someone’s shouting about their comms being down.
Perfect. Ada’s burning through everything like a massive star going supernova.
Below, Kraxis barrels in like he knows I’m to blame, and my heart beats halfway between fear and malicious satisfaction.
I can’t hear everything he’s yelling, but his tone is sharp, which makes the guttural Void Stalker words sound almost painful.
He’s real pissed, which is bad. He’s suspicious, which is worse.
His tail whips around behind him like he’s trying to cosplay vengeance itself.
One of the other guards mutters something, and Kraxis grabs him by the collar and throws him—just throws him—into a cargo crate. No one else makes a sound after that.
I keep my breath shallow, pressed as close to the duct’s interior as I can manage. He’s barking orders now—something about motion sensors, floor sweeps, sealing the doors, followed by something incredibly offensive about “the hybrid.” Charming.
Then my stomach lurches, because I see a shadow peel off from the far side of the garage—just a flicker, a suggestion of movement between two parked shuttles. For a second I think I’m hallucinating, heat-dazed and dream-hungry. But then the light pulses again and I see him.
Orion.
Stars, he haunts every fevered dream I’ve had since we parted, but I’d bet my left tit he’s actually gotten sexier in the intervening days.
Rather than his absurd khaki ranger uniform, he’s clad head-to-toe in skintight black body armor.
It hugs his broad chest and thick thighs exactly like I want to, and I have to shake myself back into focus because dammit, now is not the time to rub one out in an air duct.
He’s making his way toward the maintenance stairs—he’s almost there—and stars, he might actually be good at this? Who would’ve thought my own little backwater boy scout could move like a ghost, fluid and fast and all delicious, coiled tension.
Unfortunately, at that moment Kraxis turns. His head snaps toward the stairs, nostrils flaring like a lupitian catching scent.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
He doesn’t see Orion directly—not yet—but I know he saw the movement. A shadow. Enough to set his dim-witted paranoia fully on fire. He starts moving, and two Void Stalker guards move with him, weapons up, scanning every inch of the dark.
Orion’s a second from being caught, and because I think I’m in love with the broad-shouldered, thick-thighed tree hugger, I move without thinking.
I unscrew the duct panel, fingers slick with grime, and drop into the narrow service corridor like a meteorite in freefall.
I hit the floor hard, knees jarring, but adrenaline makes the pain irrelevant.
I run for the nearest wall console, praying it hasn’t been frizzed out and gutted in one of the power surges.
It hasn’t, thank the stars.
I slam my hand on the proximity alarm trigger and duck behind a tool rack as a new klaxon blares, harsh and grating.
“Something tripped the proximity alarm in the southeastern corner of the launch bay,” one of the Void Stalkers shouts, and I recognize my good buddy Thall. Piece of shit lizard dick, I grumble to myself.
Kraxis wheels around, hatred written on his reptilian face.
“There!” he snarls. “Sweep it now!”
His guards scatter toward the false signal.
And Orion—stars bless his insubordinate soul—moves.
He bolts for the corridor as Kraxis stalks off in the opposite direction. I catch up just in time to grab Orion’s wrist and drag him through a side door and into a closet barely big enough for a vacuum mop and our collective regret.
We slam into each other in the dark, breathless, pressed chest-to-chest in an awkward tangle of limbs and heat and holy-shit-we’re-alive.
I don’t say anything. He doesn’t either.
Outside, boots thunder past. Voices echo down the corridor—too far to catch specifics, but angry enough to keep us frozen.
Then silence. We’re still for a beat, then another.
“I’m starting to think you missed me,” Orion whispers, his breath hot against my ear. Lust is never far from my mind when it comes to him, and it burns through my body like a struck match.
I bite the inside of my cheek to hold in my manic, relieved, choking-with-tears laugh.
“You were supposed to go back to Xylothia and forget about me,” I whisper, pressing my face into his neck and inhaling like an addict. “You’re such a disobedient idiot.”
“Yeah,” he sighs, threading his fingers through my filthy clumps of hair. “I didn’t used to be. But I picked it up from someone along the way.”
He’s grinning—I can feel it in the dark. And I hate how much I missed that grin. I hate how much I missed his everything.
Calm down, Lyra. Do not try to fuck him in this closet.
I peek out the door. Kraxis and his Void Stalker groupies are gone.
And for a single breath, a single blink in this flickering, half-lit hell, we’re still safe.