Chapter 34
HRASK
The alarm hits before I see her.
It tears through the corridors in sharp, layered pulses, red light flooding the walls in rhythmic flashes that turn everything into motion and shadow, and the controlled chaos of the base fractures into something harsher, more chaotic.
Boots pound across metal in overlapping patterns, voices snapping orders that bounce off the structure and distort direction, and I cut through it all at a diagonal, not following the flow, not fighting it directly, just slipping between the fractures where it breaks.
“Yeah,” I mutter under my breath, adjusting my pace as a patrol rushes past the junction ahead of me. “You definitely didn’t keep a low profile.”
A sharp crack echoes from deeper inside the sector—weapon discharge, not standard issue—and I don’t need a system map to tell me exactly where she went.
“Command level,” I murmur as I angle toward it. “Of course you went straight for the center.”
The corridor narrows, then opens again into a wider artery feeding out from the command wing, and the movement here is heavier, more focused, units converging instead of dispersing.
“You’re running out of space,” I say quietly, scanning the intersections ahead.
Then—
Movement.
Fast.
Wrong direction.
I pivot just as she bursts out of a side corridor, her stride uneven but relentless, one hand gripping something tight enough that her knuckles blanch under the pressure.
“There you are,” I say, stepping into her path.
She almost shoots me.
Her weapon comes up instinctively, her eyes sharp and wild for half a second before recognition slams into place.
“Don’t—” she starts, cutting herself off as she exhales hard. “Damn it, Hrask.”
“Good to see you too,” I reply, grabbing her arm and pulling her into the shadow of the adjoining corridor before the next wave of patrols rounds the corner.
“You picked a hell of a time to improvise,” I add, keeping my voice low as I press her back against the wall just long enough to check the corridor.
“I didn’t improvise,” she snaps, still breathing hard. “I finished it.”
“Yeah?” I glance at the device in her hand. “That what that is?”
Her grip tightens around it.
“That’s everything,” she says.
I nod once.
“Good,” I reply. “Because I didn’t get all of mine.”
Her gaze snaps to mine.
“You made it into the archive?” she asks.
“Eighty-two percent before they noticed,” I say, my mouth tightening slightly. “Enough to confirm patterns, not enough to bury them.”
“That’s more than enough,” she says immediately. “I got him on record.”
“Dadams?” I ask.
Her expression shifts.
Hardens.
“He’s dead,” she says.
The words land heavier than the alarms.
“Driscoll?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she replies, her voice tightening. “Right in front of me.”
I exhale slowly, something cold settling into place.
“Then we don’t have time,” I say.
“We never did,” she shoots back.
A squad turns the corner at the far end of the corridor, their movement sharp and coordinated, and I don’t wait.
“Move,” I mutter, pulling her with me.
We cut through the next passage before they can lock onto us, our pace syncing without discussion, her covering the rear angle as I take point through the turns.
“You’re bleeding again,” I say, glancing back just long enough to catch the darker spread along her side.
“I noticed,” she mutters.
“Try not to die before we get out,” I add.
“No promises,” she shoots back.
“That’s not reassuring.”
“Then stop asking for reassurance.”
A sharp turn, a narrow corridor, then another junction, and I slow just enough to reorient.
“We’re not taking the main exit,” I say.
“Good,” she replies. “Because that’s where they’ll expect us.”
“Yeah,” I nod. “We go back the way we came, but not exactly.”
She glances at me.
“Define ‘not exactly,’” she says.
“We cut through the lower maintenance grid,” I reply. “Same tunnels, different access point. Less traffic, fewer eyes.”
“More ways to get trapped,” she mutters.
“Yeah,” I agree. “But we’re already past the safe options.”
She huffs a breath, something almost like a laugh slipping through despite everything.
“Fair,” she says.
We move again, dropping down a level through a service ladder that rattles under our weight, the air shifting colder as we descend back toward the understructure.
“You didn’t answer me,” she says as we hit the lower corridor.
“About what?” I ask, already moving.
“You getting out,” she says. “You just show up like that’s not a thing.”
“I got out,” I reply.
“Yeah, I noticed,” she mutters. “How?”
“Bad decisions and good timing,” I say.
“Yeah, no shit.” she replies.
We round another corner, the alarms dulling slightly as the structure absorbs some of the sound, and I finally slow enough to pull the device from my belt.
“Show me what you’ve got,” I say.
She doesn’t hesitate.
She hands it over.
The screen flickers to life, the recording still active, and I scrub through it quickly, catching the key moments—the admission, the shift in Driscoll’s tone, the shot.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “That’s solid.”
“Your turn,” she says.
I pass her my device.
“Partial logs,” I explain. “Patrol manipulation, breach scheduling, command overrides.”
She scans it fast, her expression tightening as she processes it.
“They match,” she says. “Everything lines up.”
“Yeah,” I reply. “Which means we’ve got something real.”
“Something they can’t bury,” she adds.
“Not if it gets out,” I say.
She looks up at me.
“Then we get it out,” she says.
“Off-world,” I reply immediately.
She doesn’t argue.
Good.
“We can’t push this through internal channels,” I continue. “It’ll get flagged, intercepted, wiped before it reaches anything that matters.”
“External broadcast?” she asks.
“Too exposed,” I say. “We need distance first. Somewhere outside their control grid.”
“Which means getting off Myrza,” she says.
“Yeah,” I nod. “Fast.”
She exhales, her shoulders tightening slightly.
“That’s not going to be easy,” she mutters.
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
Footsteps echo from the corridor behind us.
Closer.
“Then we stop talking about it and start moving,” she says.
“Agreed,” I reply.
I take point again, angling us toward the alternate access route, the path narrower, less maintained, but exactly what we need right now.
“You good to keep up?” I ask.
She shoots me a look.
“I’ve made it this far,” she says. “Don’t start doubting me now.”
“I’m not doubting,” I reply. “I’m accounting for variables.”
“Add ‘stubborn’ to the list,” she mutters.
“Already did.”
We push deeper into the tunnels, the air growing heavier again.
“You really think this changes anything?” she asks after a moment.
I glance back at her.
“It changes everything,” I say.
Her gaze holds mine for a second longer than it should.
“Good,” she says quietly. “Because I didn’t come this far for it not to.”
I nod once, turning back toward the path ahead.
“Then let’s make sure it sticks,” I reply.