26. Isolde
ISOLDE
T he lights won’t stop flickering.
Every hallway pulses like a dying heartbeat, overhead strips blinking in slow, dissonant rhythm. Like the station itself is struggling to breathe.
I sprint through it anyway—barefoot, robe flapping around my legs, heart clawing against my ribs like it’s trying to escape before I do.
“Reflector,” I hiss, nearly tripping over a body slumped against the wall. “Scan the elevators again—he might’ve slipped through!”
“I—I’m trying!” Reflector stammers. The droid zips ahead of me, optics sputtering with static. His voice—normally crisp, almost smug—is fractured now. “They’ve overridden subdeck junctions. Signals are bouncing like mad. It’s— it’s chaos. ”
“Welcome to motherhood,” I snarl.
I jump the body. The security officer isn’t dead—his chest rises in shallow bursts—but his badge is gone and his commlink’s fried, the housing melted clean through. Vrek’s monsters took him down fast.
Just like they took my access.
My wristband flashes red every time I slam it against a sealed door: Access Revoked. Command Override. Like the station’s turned on me, siding with the invaders. Traitor metal, traitor code.
Pyramus is out there somewhere.
He’s out there.
My fingers twitch like they’re searching for him on instinct—grasping air, gripping memory. I had him in my arms six hours ago. Whispered goodnight. Smoothed his curls.
Now I don’t even know if he’s breathing.
I shove through a barricade of overturned furniture—barricade or shield or pathetic excuse for resistance, I don’t care.
The promenade decks are a maze of shadows and steam now.
Half the station’s powered down, venting pressure to cover the coup.
Reflector glows ahead of me like a firefly trapped in a hurricane, his voice clipped and cracking.
“I’m rerouting visual feed. Cameras are offline in sectors six through nine. Dockside elevators are down. Secondary lifts rerouted. Someone’s watching us. ”
“I don’t care.”
“You should. ”
I push harder.
Turn corners like they owe me blood.
Every hallway smells like smoke and coolant. Somewhere behind the walls, power couplings scream under the strain. The hum of life-support stutters. My lungs taste recycled heat, and sweat clings to my skin like glue.
“North junction’s open,” Reflector blurts. “Hatch 417—go now!”
I don’t wait. I run.
And when the door actually opens —no red lockout, no override—I almost fall through it.
The corridor beyond is dead quiet.
Too quiet.
I stop. Breathing hard. Listening.
A faint buzz. Pipes groaning. Somewhere distant—a scream.
Then—
“Reflector?” I whisper.
He hovers beside me, almost trembling. “I don’t like this. It’s too open. Too... inviting. ”
I nod. “Trap.”
He scans again. “No motion signatures. But ambient heat spikes. They were here.”
“Then we follow.”
I move.
Slower now. Controlled.
The tiles under my feet are slick with something—oil, maybe. Or blood.
Don’t think about that.
Don’t feel about that.
Just move.
I reach the central lift junction in under two minutes. And freeze.
Elevator banks stretch like a metallic ribcage around me, ten doors—nine dead. The only one still lit pulses yellow. Not green. Not red. Just... waiting.
And beside it, spray-painted in crude streaks across the wall:
“STAY BACK. HE’S OURS NOW.”
My throat closes.
Pyramus.
I take one step forward.
“Isolde, no!” Reflector shouts, voice sharp.
“Move.”
“You’re not armed!”
“I don’t care! ”
“You should!”
“I don’t! ”
He surges in front of me, blocking the lift.
His voice drops to a low, staticky growl. “I’ve seen death. I’ve watched cities fall. I’ve mapped escape routes through firestorms. And I have never seen you like this.”
“Then you haven’t been paying attention.”
“I have,” he says quietly. “Which is why I know—if you go in there now, you die.”
I stare at the door. At the flickering yellow light. At the words.
He’s ours now.
“They won’t kill him,” I whisper.
“No.”
“They want me to come.”
“Yes.”
“And I’m going.”
“I know.”
His servos whine as he moves aside.
“Then I’m going with you,” he says.
I nod. “Good.”
The lift shudders as we enter, old wiring protesting our presence. I slam my fist into the console and punch in the manual override Reflector just fed me.
The panel flashes: Destination: Deck 6 – Core Access.
Then the doors slide shut.
And we descend into hell.
The lift doors grind open on a half-lit corridor, and the smell hits me first—burnt ozone and blood.
Fresh.
Too fresh.
Reflector hovers close, his servos whining in distress. “Thermal readings: four signatures ahead, one moving—slow. Wounded.”
“Show me,” I whisper.
He projects a flickering holomap onto the wall, a shaky red blotch pulsing near a side maintenance hatch. The rest are cold. Gone.
Dead.
I move before he can finish calibrating. My bare feet slap against the grated floor, each step echoing like an accusation. Somewhere beyond the hum of flickering lights, I can hear the distant pop of blaster fire—Vrek’s men, securing the station like they own it.
But this one didn’t make it far.
The wounded pirate is slumped against the wall, clutching his side where his own plasma bolt ricocheted back on him—rookie mistake. He can’t be more than twenty. His uniform’s too big for him, sleeves singed, one boot missing.
He looks up when I approach, eyes wide, sweat streaking soot down his cheeks.
“Don’t move,” I say.
He freezes, both hands lifting in the universal gesture for please don’t shoot me.
“I’m not armed,” he wheezes.
“Neither was my son,” I snap.
He flinches like the words hit harder than a punch. “I—I didn’t touch no kid, ma’am, I swear it.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t?—”
I grab a handful of his collar and slam him back against the wall. The sound it makes is ugly. His head thuds against the steel.
Reflector hovers beside me, his voice tight. “Isolde?—”
“Stay out of it,” I hiss. My pulse is loud enough to drown reason. “You’ve got three seconds before I forget I ever believed in mercy. Where. Is. My. Son?”
The boy’s lips tremble. He smells like oil and blood and fear. “Docking bay—level five, under—under the auxiliary cargo hold! I swear! They took the kid there, said Vrek wanted—wanted leverage!”
My stomach knots. I grip his collar tighter. “Leverage for what?”
“For you! ” he blurts, voice cracking. “He said—he said you’d come running if the brat screamed loud enough—please, lady, I didn’t sign up for this?—”
He breaks off with a sob, pressing his face against his arm. His entire body shakes.
I want to scream.
I want to break something—him, the wall, the godsdamn air for letting this happen.
But all I can do is breathe through my teeth.
“How many men at the dock?” I ask, quieter now.
“I don’t know. Maybe ten. Maybe more. Vrek’s got the kid guarded tight—no one goes near him. Not even the crew.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” He looks away. “Because Vrek said the boy’s bait. For him. ”
He doesn’t need to say who him is.
Garokk.
The air leaves my lungs in one sharp exhale. I drop the pirate. He crumples against the wall, sliding to the floor. His breath rattles.
I reach down and snatch his blaster from its holster.
He flinches again. “Please?—”
“Stay down,” I say. “And pray I don’t see your face again.”
Reflector’s voice trembles. “Isolde?—”
I turn to him, blaster still smoking faintly in my hand. “Map the route to Docking Bay Five.”
His optics flicker. “You’re not thinking rationally.”
“Neither is anyone else on this station.”
“This is not what Garokk would want.”
“Garokk’s not here.”
“Yes, but?—”
“Then you do it,” I snap, “or I’ll find it blind.”
He freezes for half a beat. Then the projection flashes onto the wall—three decks down, two sealed bulkheads, one cargo lift offline.
“Fastest route,” he says quietly, “will take you through the underwalks. But they’re dark. Unmapped. And full of… company.”
“Good.”
“Good?” he echoes, aghast.
I step closer and press a quick kiss to the cool glass of his lens—the same way I used to kiss Pyramus’s forehead before bed.
The gesture shocks him into silence.
“We’re ending this tonight,” I whisper.
He hums low—uneasy, uncertain—but follows when I start moving.
The corridor tilts around us as the emergency stabilizers flicker again. Somewhere above, a siren screams like the station’s dying breath.
I don’t look back at the boy bleeding against the wall.
There’s only forward now.
Only fire.