Chapter 19 Freya
FREYA
Iwake before the alarms.
It’s too quiet.
No hum of engines in the vents. No distant scrapes of maintenance bots rolling by.
Just the steady thrum of life-support and the soft hiss of recycled air.
But it doesn’t soothe — it presses, like silence stretched too thin.
I sit up. My fingers tangle in the thin sheet.
The bunk beneath me smells of sweat and recycled fabric.
I taste faint salt still on my lips — last night’s kiss, last night’s skin — a memory most have long forgotten before sleep.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bunk.
The floor is cold under bare feet. I shift, rub my arms, trying to shake off the rest-fog of dreaming.
Outside the hatch, corridor lights are dim — red-tinged for quiet hours.
The only sound: a low vibration that hums through the plates, like the ship’s heart.
I step out. The corridor smells of metal, faint coolant oil, and stale boot-wax. My breath puffs, visible in the thin air. I realize I’m shivering — not from cold, but from something deeper.
A distant clang echoes — maybe a latched locker or boots shifting — but it snaps the station awake. The hum shifts pitch. I feel it under my boots.
I don’t know why the unease pulses in my chest, but it does.
Later, I find Jorko at the supply lockers — belt hovering, his limp making soft whines under the belt. He’s hunched over a crate, hands rummaging. I pause. He starts at the sight of me.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “You look rough.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say, glancing toward the dim windows. The hush feels accusatory. “You?”
He shrugs, not meeting my eyes. The locker-row lights flicker faintly overhead. “Same. Rumors stirring.”
I drop beside him. “Rumors?”
He exhales. “Dock gangs talking. Workers slinking off early. Some haulers skipping their rounds. I heard from a supplier — middling across from the canyon mines — said crates got 'lost' when they landed. Odd think: security logs clean, manifests signed. But crates empty. Goods gone.”
I crouch so I’m level with him. The crate he’s rifled through smells of oil, dust, the stale scent of stored metal. I run my hand over the rough edge of the plating. “That bad?”
He glances at a locker across the hall before answering, like expecting someone to hear. “Bad enough to hush the laughter in the mess hall. Even the Reapers stay quiet now. Not good when silence outnumbers the noise.”
I swallow. My throat’s dry. A tickle in my chest — tension, nerves, fear. I don’t know. But I taste cold metal and worry all at once.
Jorko reaches out, smooths my shoulder. His belt whines. “Kid — keep your head low. Don’t ask questions. Just… watch.”
I nod. I rise.
“I will.”
The shift arrives soon after. The corridor lights brighten gradually, humming back to full power.
I pass through the docking bay entrance — hauling a bucket and rag — feel more eyes than usual watching me.
Not overt stares — Far subtler: heads turning faster, shoulders stiffening, whispers cut off when I walk by.
I wipe a bulkhead panel, something I’ve scrubbed a hundred times before.
The rag is coarse, dusty; its fibers catch metal shavings.
Each swipe across the metal plate produces a faint scrape echoing in the wide bay.
That noise usually disappears into the roar of engines or loading clatter — but today the bay is empty. Too empty.
I pause. The smell: coolant, ground-metal dust, stale air. Under that — a trace of sweat, fear, subtle. I swallow the bile of suspicion.
A Reaper soldier walks by — tall, black-skinned, bone-plated. His eyes flick, linger. Not long enough to stare. Just a quick glance. There’s tension in the way the ridge of his hip plate shifts under the strip-light. I meet his eyes. He doesn’t flinch. But I feel the brush of distance between us.
I pull the bucket to the mop station, dump the water. The echo rings. The bay feels hollow, empty. I cringe the kind of way one recoils from cold water — but the cold here is different. It tastes like danger.
Later, in the mess hall, Jorko catches up to me again — over a half-filled tray of steaming stew. The smell of hot broth, stale bread, recycled spices fills the air. But even that doesn’t mask the tension.
“You okay, kid?” he asks softly, sliding his tray onto the bench. The hover-belt whines low. He watches me stir the liquid, struggle not to spill.
“Just tired,” I lie.
He doesn’t push. Instead, he nods at the empty seating near the windows. “Talk more there. Away from prying ears.”
I nod. We eat. Half-words drift over — “shipment delays,” “missing passes,” “quiet orders,” “extra patrol.” Nothing flat-out alarming yet. But I feel the crack in uncertainty widening — a fracture in trust.
I fold my legs under the bench and swallow another spoonful of stew. It tastes like metal and soup — and fear.
After shift, I return to the small quarters where I keep a few of my stuffed animals — tucked into a suitcase beneath the bunk.
I roll in, but instead of curling tight under the blanket, I reach down.
I un-zip the case with slow fingers. The room is dim, hull hum low.
I see them: ragged old stuffed rabbit, a worn teddy with one eye missing, a patchy doll with faded gingham.
The suitcase smells like old cloth, dust, the faint tang of antiseptic from orphanage nights long ago.
I pull out the rabbit — “Bunny.” One ear still slightly crooked, threads fraying.
I press the soft fur to my cheek. The cotton inside moves almost imperceptibly.
The sickness in my chest — cold fear, hollow loneliness — shakes me a little.
I close my eyes.
The memories come — cold metal bunks lit by dim rations bulbs, the echo of footsteps down empty halls, hungry eyes rolling over me, the hush of other orphans crying themselves to sleep. I remember wanting to disappear.
I press the rabbit tighter to my chest. I breathe slow. The fabric smells safe. Familiar.
But this memory — these ghosts — I’m trying to trade them in for something else. Something fierce. Something alive.
I hear the hatch hiss. I freeze.
Footsteps. Soft. Furred boots on metal plating.
He appears in the doorway: Vokar. No armor. Cloak draped over his shoulders. The red-glow panels cast soft firelight over his bone-studded frame — shadows across scars and ridge plates.
“I thought you were off-duty,” I say, voice tight.
He steps by, doesn’t close the door. Heat radiates off him. Steel and dark skin. The faint scent of forest soil clinging to him — from the fields outside.
“Thought I might find you here,” he says. Voice low. Quiet.
I close the suitcase. The rabbit goes back inside. The smell of stuffing, cotton, dust sealed away.
“You look… distant,” he says.
I shrug. Lie. “Nothing serious.”
He moves closer. Claws do not glint. No threat in them. Instead he reaches up. Folds a stray curl behind my ear. He brushes his fingers across my cheek — careful. Gentle.
“You know I guard you,” he says. “Inside and out.”
I swallow. The air tastes like metal, fear, comfort.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
He pulls me close. I feel bone-spur ridge against bare skin — cold at first, then warmth as his muscles shift. The cloak around us folds — a cocoon.
“You rest,” he says. “No more fears tonight.”
I nod, hear my heartbeat heavy.
I close my eyes. I let the damp hum of the world lull me.
I slip from the shadows of the corridor into the little data-nexus alcove near the communications hub; the low hum of servers and the scent of warm if slightly stale air surrounds me.
I’m not supposed to be here. Not allowed near these feeds.
But something in my gut — cold, hard, insistent — told me I need to hear.
I press my boots against the grated floor, crouch low, keep my breath quiet, my heart quieter.
Fingers sliding over keys and holo-slate controls, I override the superficial access layers — nothing fancy, but enough with what I know from cleaning rooms and sweeping corridors.
The panel screen flickers, the soft glow lighting my face in pale blue.
I toggle channels, another, then another.
Static. Hums. Then a whisper — harsh, low, velveted with threat and smoldering anger.
I freeze.
I pull the feed louder with trembling fingers.
“...turn the clans back to claws… no soft-skins walking our halls… no more pussy-pet dancing... blood and bone, like we were born for.”
The words rasp through the speaker crackle.
“Trebuchet says we get the numbers. Workers are distracted — supplies diverted. Crack this human-alliance open, and we tear down the softening influence.”
I hear ARp-codes. Names: “Dock Ten Forty-six,” “Haul convoy LZ-3,” “Redsong hold,” ugly, guttural gutturals. I taste bile.
I lean forward, hand over my mouth. The metal plating under my palm feels cold. My heart hammers so loud I think the entire hub can hear it.
They talk about me. About Vokar, about his “pet.” They call me a softness that must be razed. A weakness. A symbol of betrayal — to bone, to clan, to tradition.
I don’t know how long I sit there — the world tilts, the numbers on the screen spin, the clacking of my teeth against panic tastes like cold iron. But I know I must act. Not scream. Not bolt. Not run. Act.
I swipe the slate clean. Erase records. Logout. Quiet. Invisible.
Then I walk.
The courtyard is empty — pre-dawn hush, the night still clutching half the compound in shadow. The only sound: distant hum of life-support, a soft breeze brushing against recycled metal, and my own boots stepping swiftly across plating.
I find him in the garden again — where last we stood beneath alien pines, where light touched bone and skin alike. He’s leaning against a railing, shoulders hunched just enough to make me worry.
“I need to see you,” I demand before I’m even near enough for whisper.
He straightens like a ridge being set under pressure. “Freya.” His voice — low, wary.
“I listened,” I say. “To comm-traffic. The base… cargo. The talk in the dark. Trebuchet’s name... your clan’s old dogs wanting to tear this down.” I don’t soften my words. The cold night air scratches them sharp in my throat.
His eyes narrow — red hot in the darkness. “You shouldn’t have seen that.”
“I did.”
He doesn’t move. The wind whips his cloak around bone-plated shoulders. Outside, the forest moon’s peaks glint faint in distant starlight. I can smell damp earth, pine from the lower terraces, and the metallic aftertaste of fear.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, voice trembling — anger beneath the calm. “Why did I have to hear it from dead lips on a comm line? Let me decide what I want to do.”
He’s silent for a long stretch. Then he steps forward, closer than I expect. He smells of cold leather, night wind, forest soil. Warm sweat still lingers in the folds of his cloak.
He lowers his head. His voice — not a growl, but low, bone-deep, ragged: “You were never the weakness.”
I blink. The world shifts.
He lifts his chin. “I was.”
The words hit so hard I stagger back a bit. I didn’t expect those words from him. Not raw. Not unraveling.
“Why?” I whisper. Hurt, fear, fury — all tangled.
His eyes close. The ridge of bone along his jaw tenses. Then he exhales, slow, heavy. “Because I thought if I sealed your world off — kept the beasts away — I was protecting you. I thought fear could shield you from the claws. But I forgot something sacred.”
He opens his eyes. I see stars, storm clouds, something ancient and broken inside those red pits.
“Strength isn’t in walls, Freya. Strength — real strength — is in trust. In open scars, in shared blood, in living, together.”
I swallow hard, taste iron on my tongue from my own anger. My vision blurs for a second — tears I don’t trust.
I press a palm to my stomach. My fingers tremble.
“You can’t protect me from this,” I say. “Not by hiding things. If this war comes — I won’t crawl behind your armor.”
His hand moves, slow, deliberate. Clawed fingers pop out, not with threat, but with softness. I see the small scars of past wars — hand-scars, claw-scars — etched in his calloused palm.
He touches my cheek. Light. Gentle. Something I’m not sure I deserve any more.
“I don’t want your fear,” he murmurs — voice cracked low. “I want your fire. Your anger. Your truth. Lean with me. Fight with me. Not for me. With me.”
I swallow. The night air tastes cold. The pine-mist touches my skin. My heartbeat echoes in my ears — slow, uneven. Alive.
I stand still, letting him hold me. Letting the promise hang between us like a blade.
“Then we fight,” I whisper. “If this breaks… we stop it. Together.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just pulls me tighter, bones pressing through cloth, warmth spreading under skin. His cloak wraps both of us — a shroud of dark cloth under a sky of distant stars.
For a moment, time erases. The world falls away.
I close my eyes. I breathe him in: sweat, leather, danger — and trust.
I let it anchor me.
Later, when I finally crawl into bunk — exhaustion heavy in my bones — I don’t hear the life-support humming. I only hear the emptiness.
I imagine the comm feed again — the static, the whispers, the names. Rebirth. Return. Softening influence. Trebuchet’s name like poison on the air.
I press my pillow hard against my face. I taste the scent of antiseptic from the orphanage, bitter and raw. I remember being small. Invisible. Afraid.
Then I remember his arms. His promise.
I roll over. Under the blanket, the cloth smells faint of his cloak — forest, soil, cold metal. I breathe it in.
I don’t know what danger is coming. I don’t know when the first spark will hit — the fracture, the betrayal, the blade behind smile.
But I know this: I’m not alone.
And I don’t want to be hidden in the dark anymore.
I whisper into the dark, to walls, to stars, to the promise between bone and flesh:
If you want war — I’ll bring fire.
I close my eyes. Heart pounding cold with fear — and blazing bright with resolve.
Because tonight… I choose to stand.