Page 1 of Phoenix's Last Heist
1
lyra
Watch Your Step While Looting
When the floorgives way beneath me, I know I’ve gone too far.
The sharp crack of breaking rock and dull rumble of shifting earth boom through the stone-hewn temple, shattering the silence like blasphemy. My gut drops—hard, sudden—as if my stomach’s been ripped out through my throat. The rush of air tears at me and gravity drags me down, faster, deeper. For one wild, unthinking moment, I imagine the sound my body will make when it meets the stone below. The ugly, wet crunch of bone and flesh. Darkness yawns wide beneath me, so absolute that even the full-spectrum lights on my helmet can’t cut through it.
My father’s words of warning flash through my mind as I flail wildly, grasping for something to save me from plummeting to what promises to be my untimely—but unmourned—death. Pulse roaring in my ears, my sweat-slick hands tangle in the fibrous, rope-like roots of the banthus tree growing through the walls of the ancient ruins. My body jerks to a stop with a violentsnap, slamming into the side of the pit and dangling above what sounds like a very,verylong drop.
Pain detonates through my shoulder as ancient dust floods my mouth, a loamy note on the copper I already taste on my tongue. Heart battering against my aching ribcage and head spinning, I desperately try to reorient myself.
For a heartbeat, the only sounds are the soft skittering of pebbles and dirt as they rain down from the gaping maw that was the temple’s floor. It’s like a kiss of salt on my wounds—and my pride. Then, from somewhere deep in memory, my father’s voice again:
“If you get to the Chamber of the Second Moon, turn back—you’ve gone too far.”
Too far. Always too far.
“Could’ve used a bit more of a heads-up there, Dad,” I huff to myself, jittery with a heady combination of relief and humiliation. “Something like, ‘Oh, watch out for boobytraps and structural integrity issues in the five-thousand-year-old temple, kiddo!’”
My ass and side ache where I slammed into the wall of the pit, but I’m otherwise fine—no major injuries, minus the bruises that will certainly color to a festering blue-black over the next few days. Slithering rivulets of sweat drip down the back of my neck as I pull myself up, gripping the thick roots with my thighs and sliding my hands along the slick bark. My progress is slow, but I don’t want to risk slipping back down, so I climb with the cautiousness I should’ve shown before instead of barreling through the ancient structure with my characteristic impatience and irritation.
Grunting with effort, I haul my body over the edge of the crumbling floor and shimmy away from the lip of the hole, tucking myself between the massive trunk of the banthus and the cool stone walls of the chamber. Bright afternoon light filtersin through the open roof and verdant rainforest canopy where lush jungle has reclaimed the once-sacred space. Towering trees—even bigger than the banthus—cast mottled shadows while parasitic vines twist through tiny cracks in the mortar, and strange purple and green mosses cling to every damp surface. The outside jungle is a riot of competing sounds and smells—a cacophony of strange animals and stranger insects, cloying aromas of flowers and overripe fruits mixed with vegetal decay, but in this massive sanctuary, it fades behind the peacefulness of dripping water and ancient stone.
Although this temple once belonged to a race of alien warriors older than time itself, even they are faint blips in the storied existence of this planet. Nature was here long before them and has continued to thrive after the decline of their civilization.
Despite the dappled shade inside, the heat from the twin suns of this system makes the tropical humidity thick and oppressive, making my brief rest feel anything but rejuvenating. The sultry air and the chemical composition of the atmosphere on this planet make breathing feel more like a chore than anything, and I regret my decision to leave my full life-support suit back on my ship. Not only would the filtration system have been helpful, but the cooling system would have been decidedly welcome. At the time, I’d opted out of the extra gear partly because it’s heavy and unwieldy, and partly because I just spent three months on a frozen chunk of stupidity some asshole had the nerve to call a moon. Despite my orders, smuggling contraband glacillite crystals off-world wasn’t worth the frostbite that almost claimed my fingers and toes.
A quick romp through a tropical paradise sounded too good to be true, and of course, it is. There’s nothing good about this trip, except for the fact that when I get what I’ve come for, I’ll be one step closer to freedom—real freedom, the kind that doesn’tcome with a leash or a homing beacon. Every assignment, every bruise, every sleepless night is a transaction toward that goal. But the closer I get, the more I feel the walls tightening—the rules and false promises of the grasping hand that still owns me.
Some stars-forsaken species of fat, blood-sucking insect flies over, landing on my sweat-sticky skin and I swat it—the slap echoing off the temple walls.
Paradise, my ass.
A cheery tone dings in my helmet.
Internal body temperature approaching critical levels. Rest and hydration are recommended to avoid heatstroke. Artificial life-support system is advisable for this planet.
“I swear to the stars, Ada—if you hit me with an ‘I told you so,’ I will rewire you. Again,” I grumble.
Acknowledged. That went so well for us last time. If you’re interested in the data, having my entire neural network ripped apart and rebuilt at the whim of a frequently inebriated hybrid has decreased our mission success percentage by 66.6%.
I wince. The Advanced Digital Assistant, or ADA, that came installed in theAldrin-136has all the charm of a black hole and about as much warmth. I’d inherited the ship in a haze of grief and regrettably reprogramed the system after one too many jars of illegal Zorium moonshine. When I rebooted her, Ada had come back online with a computer chip on her shoulder and an overactive sarcasm drive. In other words, I’d drunkenly created the galaxy’s most irascible AI navigator.
“I’m not heading back to the ship just yet. I’m already inside the Celestial Temple. All I have to do is find the Chamber of the Early Sun and grab the idol of the Solar Mother or whatever, and then—assuming I can successfully duck Brill and his flunkies long enough to decipher the clues—it’s back to the Epsilon-6 station for a little R&R,” I say, cheered by thoughts ofbooze-soaked pleasures involving little clothing and even fewer attachments.
What do you mean byR&R?Ada asks, not one to grasp colloquial nuances.
I chuckle. “It means I’ll learn what I can from the idol and then unload it before indulging in as much debauchery as I can lay my fingers on,” I huff, brushing the dirt from my filthy shorts. “I’m talking gallons of moonshine and some burly alien dude with tentacles in all the right places, if you know what I mean.”
Your lack of ambition is disappointing and your extracurricular choices are ill-advised.
Ada’s motherly disapproval makes me snort in derision. I take a swig of tepid, metallic-tasting water from my canteen.
“Yeah, well, the water you recycled from the ship tastes like robot piss. So there.”
Perhaps you should clean the filtration system, if you are displeased. In fact, all of my systems could benefit from regular cleaning and routine maintenance.
