Page 75 of Phoenix's Last Heist
My ship is there, of course—currently surrounded by a veritable army of Void Stalkers.
20
orion
A Ghost in the Smoke
By the timewe clear the alley outside the café and wind through widening streets, a late storm is brewing over the Tumplesh sector. Rain beats down in a drippy staccato on the crystalline awnings overhead, rolling warm mist into the busy street where Vega and I move at a clipped pace. The station's artificial atmosphere turns even drizzle into a curtain of damp that soaks through our clothes in minutes.
We cut through a row of neon-lit stalls and food carts still sputtering over heat coils, the streets thick with the scent of fried bantil and scorched synth-meat. My boots splash through puddles as we keep to the edges of the corridor, dodging patrolling security drones and doing our best to stay invisible. Vega checks over his shoulder every third step.
“They’re close,” he mutters. “We need to move faster. No idea if they clocked the café, but they were sniffing near the terminal. We’ve got maybe five minutes, tops.”
“Then maybe less narration, more sprinting,” I snap. My mating instinct is surging with the idea of Lyra working with the annoyingly dashing Martian.
He snorts. “I’m going slow so you can keep up, Ranger.”
I glare but keep quiet, certain that if the Fed wasn’t in the process of saving my ass and probably Lyra’s, I’d punch him in the throat. The vision soothes me and pacifies a little of my mating-induced envy.
A few streets down, Vega motions to another nondescript alleyway, and we duck in, melting into the darkness. When he’s sure we’re not being followed, he pops open a nearby service hatch and we slip inside, emerging into the lower cargo bay several decks below. The hum of distant turbines and the occasional shout of dockhands bouncing off concrete bulkheads echoes through the bay, making it almost impossible for me to hear Vega’s muttered instructions.
Just beyond the loading gates, a matte-black hoverbike leans against a crate—one side scorched, the back end rigged with what Vega explains is a dummy crash panel. A few meters away, a squat gray unmarked cruiser waits with its running lights dimmed. Vega’s already tapping at a wristpad, syncing systems.
“I’m going to cue the dummy route,” he says. “You’re going to give them the show. We crash it big. In the chaos, we jump into the cruiser and ghost. I hope you know how to ride a hoverbike.”
Frustration makes my temper snap. “What if I didn’t?”
He tosses me a helmet, grinning. “Well then, this wouldn’t look very convincing now, would it?”
I narrow my eyes. “You don’t seem nearly panicked enough for someone improvising under fire.”
Vega’s mouth twitches. “That’s because I’m not. This wasn’t meant for you. This was Lyra’s out—contingency escape route if things went sideways after we swapped the idol.”
He points to the cruiser. “Scrambler’s built in. Registry loops every thirty seconds. Bike’s wired to detonate off a trigger relay and crash with just enough synthetic residue to fool basic forensics and the dumbass Void Stalkers tailing you.”
I blink. “You planned to fake Lyra’s death?”
“No,” he says, adjusting something on his wristpad. “I planned to make it possible—if she needed to disappear.”
There’s something harder in his voice now. A pause. Then he shakes it off. “Now it’s yours. Try not to waste it.”
Before I can come up with something biting, the hair on the back of my neck stands up, and my synesfores flicker a panicky yellow. Void Stalkers step out of the darkness at the dock’s entrance—there are six of them, their sleek black armor glinting in the warm, wet air. The moment they catch sight of us, they fan out, running in our direction in an attempt to cut us off.
“Go!” Vega hisses.
I jump on the bike, slam down on the throttle, and rocket into the lane. Behind me, Vega vaults onto the cruiser’s open ramp and hits the ignition. It hums to life but stays grounded for now, lights dark.
Plasma fire cracks through the alley as the Void Stalkers track me.
"Target on the bike! It’s the Xylothian!”
I duck low and follow the narrow guidance overlay Vega directed to my HUD. It’s hastily mapped, but the directions make sense. Left at the coolant tower. Boost under the scaffolding. Bail point just before the station vent.
I gun it, swerving past pallets of trade goods and diving under a bridge. I count down under my breath, flick the autopilot control, and hurl myself sideways.
I tumble hard onto the soaked concrete, gasping as the impact knocks the wind from my lungs. Pain blooms along my side where I hit the ground, but my adrenaline surges enoughto get me back on my feet. The bike, now under Vega’s pre-set script, races forward like there’s a pack of rabid lupitians on its tail. It shoots forward, arcing into a tight spiral before smashing into the side of a cargo freighter. The explosion rocks the bay with a fireball that swallows the alley in smoke and flame. Hopefully, the firebots will extinguish everything before the fake idol melts in the crash debris.
The heat washes over me even from cover, and there’s a discordant soundtrack of soft rain spattering in puddles at my feet, combined with screeching metal and wailing sirens. The detonation's flash blinds half the bay—exactly what Vega planned. Screams erupt in the wake of the destruction and a few of the Void Stalkers close in on the scene of the crash.
