Page 18 of Phoenix's Last Heist
Lyra chews on her bottom lip and I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry.
“So, how important are those landing codes?” she asks.
“You can’t dock here without valid landing codes,” the harbor patrol cuts in.
“Since when does Turquin play by the rules?” Lyra gripes. Her fingers drum against the console as she searches for anything—old codes, a bribe, a loophole. Nothing.
“I repeat—you cannot dock here without valid landing codes,” the harbor patrol radios. “If you don’t have them, you’ll have to resupply somewhere else.”
“Listen, you filthy…” Lyra starts to growl.
I take a step forward, my voice firm but measured, trying to reclaim some control.
“Two hundred credits,” I interrupt. “We’ll transmit two hundred credits to you to forget about the landing codes and strike our ship from your arrival register.”
Her eyes widen slightly, the relief barely visible, and I can’t help but feel the sting of guilt again, but at least now I can help undo some of that mess. The silence stretches for a few seconds, but the static-coated reply finally comes through.
“Transmit the credits, then dock in bay nineteen.”
Lyra cuts the transmission and glares at me.
“I hope you don’t expect me to pay you back, Ranger,” she says. “Since it’s your fault I’m currently broke, anyway.”
“Sure,” I say with a satisfied smile. The pressure in my chest has eased some, leaving my only discomfort throbbing between my legs. “If it means we can get some food other than pills, powders, and expired carbo shakes, I’ll happily foot the two hundred to get us to civilization.”
I toss her my identity chip so she can pull the funds from my account. My compliance only seems to annoy her further, so I rise from the navigator’s chair and head back to my berth. I won’t risk her irritation sending out a spike ofvelliaagain now that I’ve gotten control of myself. I can’t decide who’s more at fault—Lyra for her damned genetics or me for goading her. On the way back to my room, I pepper Ada with questions about Turquin and Amphitreas, intent on distracting myself from the ever-present ache in my groin that accompanies every encounter with Lyra.
“What’s the environment like down on Turquin, Ada?” I survey my clothing options with disappointment. Everything Lyra has let me borrow is too small, has too many appendages, or is made from some uncomfortable material. Once we get into port, I’ll purchase something clean and functional that actuallyfits.
The equatorial port city of Turquin sits in the Great Sea of Amphitreas. The environment could be compared to tropics on other terrestrial planets, but Amphitreas has no available land mass and is entirely covered by water. Manmade floats make up every habitable surface. Due to the planet’s oblong orbit, Turquin resides in a warm, tropical zone averaging roughly 299.8 Kelvin for thirteen months out of their annual twenty. For the remaining seven months, Turquin freezes over completely for the Amphitrean winter, with temperatures averaging 184 Kelvin.
“How do people survive the winters?” I wonder.
Most residents leave when the planet starts to cool. A small population of Charonites are employed to maintain the structures during the freezing season. Charonites hail from the Plutonian moon Charon and thrive in temperatures that are otherwise uninhabitable for most species.
“Thank you, Ada,” I say, pulling on my uniform. My stomach drops as the ship descends into the Amphitrean atmosphere and I stumble backward during Lyra’s turbulent landing. When things still and the hum of the engines quiets, I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Look alive, Ranger!” Lyra shouts from the main corridor. She strides into my room, freezing when she sees me.
“No way. Absolutely not,” she says. “We arenotstrolling around a pirate-infested port with you wearing a freaking uniform.”
“These are the only clothes that fit. Do you have a better suggestion?”
“I don’t care if you have to walk around naked—you’re not wearing that,” she insists. “If you think the Void Stalkers’ threats of violence were bad, you don’t want to know what will happen to a cop in a city of criminals.”
“I’m a Xylothian Ranger. I’m not a Fed. I protect wildlife and ancient historical sites.”
“Oh! Silly me! There will definitely be time for you to make that distinction when we’re dealing a whole lot of shoot first,thenask questions types. Besides, how many looters and smugglers have you turned into the Feds, anyway? I’m betting we’ll probably run into at least a few of your biggest fans here,” Lyra says darkly.
I fold my arms across my chest. “Well, then what do you suggest?”
She considers me for a moment. “Maybe you should just wait on the ship until I get back.”
“Absolutely not. I don’t trust you enough to let you out of my sight. You could hire some goon to come in here and kill me,” I point out, giving voice to one of the anxieties I’ve kept tucked away over the last several days. Why hasn’t she killed me, orintentionally unleashed hervelliaon me? It’s not sitting right with my image of her, which only makes me more unsettled.
Lyra barks a laugh. “I wouldn’t need to hire anyone to kill you, Ranger. I could do it just as easily myself. Especially when you’re being so damn infuriating!”
Ada’s familiar chime rings through our argument.
