Page 79 of Phoenix's Last Heist
“I’m aware,” I answer, already running through unhinged plans in my head, each more dangerous and unlikely to succeed than the last.
“And if it’s a trap?—”
“Then we spring it,” he confirms. “It’s now or never.”
Ada’s voice cuts in again.
I’m adjusting descent vectors. We’ll hit Ooneryx’s orbit in just under nineteen hours. Prepping stealth protocols.
My jaw tightens, aching with how often I’ve been grinding my teeth and swallowing my despair.She thinks you’re gone, Ada. She thinks we’re all gone. And she's facing Brill alone.
Not for long.
21
lyra
Whispers in the Circuits
Can a bladderactuallyburst?If so, mine is about to, which will almost certainly give away my hiding place in the grossest, most visceral way I can possibly think of.
I haven’t stretched my legs in two stars-damned days. My knees are wrecked—my back’s worse. I’m thirsty, and hungry, and filthier than I think I’ve ever been thanks to the layers of sweat mixing with Ooneryx’s desert sand that gets everywhere. But the worst part is the silence—the kind that isn't empty, but waiting.Listening.
I’ve got to get out of this air duct so I can pee. Pressing my ear to the vent slats, I hear two pairs of footsteps tapping through the corridor below. A conversation filters through—muffled at first, but rising. I freeze, breath held and bladder throbbing.
“He’s still puking his guts out, but is adamant the auction goes ahead. He’s confident Phoenix is still here in the compound and it’s only a matter of time before she’s found,” one voice says. It’s not a Void Stalker, by the lack of guttural clip to the tone, butI can tell it’s another male guard. Tension leeches out between the tight words and bitten out responses.
There’s a pregnant pause, followed by the other guard’s reply.
“Ah. I thought he’d cancel, the state he’s in.”
“He’s furious—absolutely livid. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so angry. He said whoever finds the hybrid gets a million credits. And for those of us who don’t find her, he’ll kill one out of every ten.”
My stomach knots. That would certainly motivate me, if I were a nefarious henchman or evil-leaning mercenary. The carrot? A million credits. The stick? Likely disembowelment, decapitation, or defenestration.Damn, so many disturbing ‘d’ words.
I press both hands to my mouth to stifle my panting breaths. My heart's beating so loud I'm sure they'll hear it. Myvelliaand the alcohol worked well enough to give me a head start, but even though Brill is weak, sick, and probably hallucinating, he’s not down for the count—not by a long shot.
Stupid, stubborn, hard-to-kill asshole!
The duct metal creaks under me. I go still. I’ve only slipped out twice—once to drink condensation from a cracked coolant pipe, which,disgusting, and again to snag half a nutrient bar off a janitor’s cart. I only move when I’m starving or about to burst. Everything else, I endure.
I know if I’m seen, I’m screwed. Or worse.All those ‘d’ words—definitely worse.
I wait until the guards’ voices fade. I count to two hundred. Only then do I crawl back to the junction where the air duct hides a broken maintenance panel I pried open last night. I shimmy out, legs numb, body trembling, radiating misery. The walls down here are old, as if this entire section of the maintenance floors has been forgotten. Blessedly, there’s ablocked off restroom at the end of the floor and I’m able to relieve myself before exploring a little more.
It’s the only reason I find the old server room—the one they used before the last renovation. Most of the equipment is rust-eaten, choked with sand, or damaged by time’s inevitability. There are dusty terminals, fractured holo-screens, even a few broken-down service droids. Everything seems to be half-dead, but in the grim, dusty quiet of the space, a faint green light pulses from behind one of the consoles.
Ah ha! Notall the waydead.
I cross to the console and pull out a nearly ancient transceiver. Obsolete. Outdated. Butnotbroken.
Hope hits me like a blade in the chest. It almost hurts worse than the hunger.
I drop to my knees and get to work.
After I splice openthe old transceiver and scrape corrosion from the chip housing with the edge of a broken circuit board, I can barely hold the tools steady. It’s not from fear, I don’t think. From hunger, maybe. Or perhaps from the constant weight pressing into my chest because my chance of escape is shrinking by the hour.
But mostly because I keep thinking of Orion.
